


windfall

by twigcollins



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2018-11-07 12:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11059437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: "Don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he ever wanted"





	1. Chapter 1

Alejandro Reyes Vidal aka Sebastián Reyes Vidal aka Maruicio Vidal aka Maruicio Reyes aka Reyes Vidal aka Shena aka the Shark aka Matador aka Anubis aka the Charlatan never expected it to be easy. 

Good things didn’t happen. Bad things happened, and you wrung victory from them while laughing at your enemies.

Truth be told, he’d gone into stasis betting even odds that he’d never wake up again. Six hundred years and a ridiculous number of miles from known civilization - that was just rolling the dice, no matter how many videos of sunswept fields and tropical vistas the Initiative’s people kept on a loop. And they called him a liar.

Vidal always rolled the dice, and they usually landed in his favor, or close enough for a helpful nudge.

So when the Scourge rid them of the top brass and the Golden Worlds weren’t even gilded and the Nexus started shedding boatloads of exiles, Reyes did what he always did. What he probably would have done, even in better circumstances. Scramble and barter, lie and negotiate and survive. Pleasantries backed with firepower, and when he’d arrived on Kadara it had been useful to let Sloane deal with the Kett first, to see which way the wind was blowing and just how hard. The more enemies she made, the more of a foothold Reyes could find with a growing opposition and he thinks he might end up fighting for this technicolor Molotov Cocktail of a planet, if for no other reason than to take it from her. Sloane has an astonishing lack of imagination, for someone who bothered traveling halfway across the universe.

The Milky Way had been all negotiated for and parceled out long before Reyes had been born, nothing new except climbing up one chain of command or another that had already been there, possibly _always_ been there, if there were a Krogan or Asari at the top. If he wanted any chance of making his name, he’d have to do it among fresh stars.

Kadara is, perhaps, a bit too familiar for such a long trip, seedy and down-at-the-tooth even before they’d arrived, the Angaran locals the problem children of their own galaxy. Sloane is too insular and suspicious to trust them, to look much further than those who hit planetside with her - a boon to the Collective, in the early days. He worked his connections with the Angara, gained their trust simply because the Outcasts provided no alternative - and eventually even found a few contacts with the Resistance, a few new eyes. Enough to have a better view of the terrain.

It isn’t exactly bursting with pleasant revelations. The Kett are pumice-faced zealots, with seemingly zero interest in anything but total domination, and the new arrivals to the Heleus Cluster are only more means to the same end. A minor miracle, really, that the Nexus has survived as long as it has - but they’re running out of food up there, and there are no signs of the arks and the colony attempts have all been stunning failures. Sloane may find this amusing but having less options is never better, and Reyes thinks that the end of the Nexus will likely be the end of any real Human footprint in Andromeda. Or Turian, or Salarian, or possibly even Asari.

The Krogan might tough it out - they’ve rolled with the punches when the punches were thermonuclear - but as for the rest of them, Reyes does not see many long-term options beyond watching the Nexus finally collapse under its own weight, and then scavenging what he can, for whatever he wants to call living in the aftermath. 

The Resistance has its home on a hidden world called Aya. The angara on Kadara mostly talk about it in tones both hushed and bitter, the one place in this galaxy that is more than just a different flavor of barely habitable. A place he would never be allowed to reach, let alone land.

As good a goal as any, if things go as badly as they might. Maybe he’d sneak in. Probably not. But there are worse fates than dying in beautiful skies.

Of course, there are also better fates - like the news that Ark Hyperion has finally arrived in Andromeda, along with the human Pathfinder.

————————————

“Is it really such a big deal?” Keema asks. 

The Roekaar think so. There are rumors they’ve upped their recruiting game, preparing for more frequent attacks, spooked by what they don’t realize is the furthest thing from Nexus reinforcements. Other rumors have popped up as well - Turians out in the wilds, or at least dead pods from the missing ark turning up here and there. Other stories, that the Kett snatched them all in one swoop, or that the Salarian ark accidentally course-corrected into a star. Every new bit of gossip stirring up the whole pot.

It’s a big enough deal that even Dagher offers up a free round of shots that almost don’t burn all the way down, because maybe it is just another twenty-thousand people they have no way to feed, but maybe it’s a few new resources to keep things limping along, the second-cousin of an actual lucky break. If nothing else, it provides a fresh perspective not tarnished by the Uprising - a Pathfinder, if that ends up being anything more than another bit of overpolished PR.

Alec Ryder. Widowed before signing up for the trip, with two grown children along for the ride. Former N7, though apparently disgraced by the same AI work that ended up as an integral part of the Initiative. A surprisingly low profile for such a key player. That’s interesting. Why not part of the advance team, Ryder? 

Reyes can tell from the picture that he’s going to be a hardass, but N7 are all about making solutions happen first and damn the consequences. If the Pathfinder lives long enough to notice Kadara, all the Charlatan has to be is the better option. Which may be tricky if Sloane concedes even a sliver of her pride, if she reaches out to him as a fellow soldier pushed to breaking, weary from wrangling even a medieval sort of order from the chaos of a foreign shore.

Reyes has little intention of fighting them both, not for - at best - an endless and unprofitable standoff on a planet that smells like a rotten egg and krogan quad sandwich. Better for the Charlatan to just pack himself up and try his luck elsewhere.

The news from one of his Nexus contacts arrives before Reyes has even finished considering all the angles. Alec Ryder isn’t a complication, because Alec Ryder is dead. His son is the Pathfinder now, his daughter sidelined with ‘undisclosed medical complications,’ and there’s a bare-bones bio and a picture of a young man in Alliance blues. Hard to complain about a man in uniform, even if Ryder looks like the photo that comes with the frame - clean-cut and Citadel-raised and unmemorable. The sort of generically inoffensive person who might be able to sell even a half-functioning Initiative. 

Still, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, to try and convince him that the Collective is worth his consideration.

His last significant news is that Vetra Nyx has joined the Pathfinder’s crew. Reyes has been courting her and her connections for ages, so that speaks to at least some sense from Alec Ryder’s fortunate son - perhaps he’s not quite as by-the-book as his photo suggests, or at least enough to notice that Director Tann does most of his talking out of his cloaca.

Reyes loses track of the Tempest and her crew for a time - the Pathfinder planetside on Aya, sifting through the wreckage of old hopes - and Sloane as always, providing her distractions. He loses a few of his men, when she poaches one of his shipments, and the Charlatan makes sure to return the favor while taking them back. He wouldn’t say she’s a particularly clever opponent - but Sloane is skilled and disciplined, surrounded by equally competent and loyal soldiers, and a base of power and wealth that can only be eroded with constant attention, a little at a time. It’s not always the most rewarding progress, but there’s something to savor in being a perpetual irritation. Being background noise has its uses - he can get away with more before anyone notices.

“Did you hear?” One of his scouts at the port, one who thinks Reyes is just a smuggler, friendly to the Collective for a fee, lit up at the moment with something more than the usual combination of bad liquor and worse ideas. “The Pathfinder went and unfucked Eos.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Pathfinder has indeed unfucked Eos, at least enough to establish a outpost that doesn’t fall over and catch fire the moment they turn their backs. 

The Pathfinder lands a few hard blows against the Kett, and meets with the Angara. On Aya. Somehow. Reyes waits for a confirmation on that one before he believes it. 

“First contact.” Keema says dryly, and they raise a glass to second chances at first impressions.

The murmurs carry throughout the ports, sweeping like a cautious wind from Kralla’s Song down through the back rooms of Tartarus - so what happens now? The Charlatan pays well for that first intrepid smuggler to make his way to Eos - minimal contraband, maximum information - and the news is good. All of it. The radiation levels continue to fall. The first crops stay in the soil. The Pathfinder’s setting up broadcast towers as he goes, bringing the good news in short and inspiring sound bites, and his voice matches his looks. ‘Dauntless’ and ‘Valiant’ and other words that get painted on the sides of ships - until Reyes wonders if they didn’t just fire up a spare exhibit from the Cultural Exchange and hand it a gun. 

The Pathfinder talks about courage and grit and determination. He doesn’t say anything about punishment, or the Initiative reclaiming what they’ve lost by any means necessary, the exiled as a force to be dealt with. Sloane is not happy, but Reyes catches even her soldiers replaying the news, scattered Pathfinder assurances echoing up and down the docks. 

Nothing like a little bit of hope, especially when it comes with results.

A few of these people, Reyes included, would be here anyway, or whatever place was most like here even if they’d all been golden worlds, but many of the exiled hadn’t left for the sake of freedom or profit, or they still have family in cryo on the Nexus. With every new victory, with every day that Prodromos keeps humming - a colony of scientists, a center of learning - the conversations all grow a little louder - _he sounds nice, he’s just a liar like the rest of them, he fixed the planet, it’s bullshit, but what if it’s not, what if he lets us go back, bullshit, but what if it’s true, what if it’s true?_

The Pathfinder unfucks Havarl.

Sloane cracks down across the port - more beatings and patrols, even a rewrite of the Outcasts’ sign-up pitch. Somebody’s getting nervous.

Reyes always had a plan, of course, although anything more than vague intent tied to ambition is just wasting time. Terminus born and raised, and though he scraped the worst of it off his reputation long before he left the Milky Way, this chaos is home. He knows what people want and what they need and how much they’re willing to pay, and this was always the plan. Watch the system build itself up around him, and vanish inside of it. A brilliant disappearing act, and for the first time since he woke up it seems like there might be an audience and a stage, and maybe even a spotlight to hide from.

“You know, Vidal,” Zia mutters, arching her back with a bit more impatience, “if I wanted to get myself off, I could have stayed home.”

“My apologies.” He murmurs against her throat, suddenly wondering why he was even here, or if there were some faster way out that wouldn’t involve getting shot. He has a more intimate relationship with Kian Dagher through three-inch thick security bars. 

His and Zia’s entanglement is perfect for Kadara, really - a makeshift liaison born mostly from boredom, a lack of immediate alternatives and the hope that maybe while they’re fucking, one or the other of them might let slip a new bit of information about a choice job. She has enough Outcast ties to keep him in her orbit, and whatever it is that makes her clench and shudder against him, she always keeps her eyes closed and her thoughts to herself. Reyes is an equally convenient means to an end.

For his own part, he thinks…. well, he considers the Pathfinder, and that precocious, pre-recorded confidence - and all the possibilities slowly returning to the table. Trade routes and supplies and increased populations with increased demands for all kinds of things, zipping back and forth across Andromeda in invisible webs of need and desire. Fuel cells and fancy shuttles and luxuries for whatever is is the Angara wish they had. Whatever the Initiative misses the most. Fine dextro dining. High-thread-count sheets. The genome for espresso-braised shortribs. Finance and commerce and systems within systems, all across Andromeda - and there he is, at the center of it all - and that’s enough to tip him over, let everything else unravel itself, if only for a few moments.

“Narcissism in action.” Zia says, as he opens his eyes, lets a hand slide across her hip in the moment before she shoves him away and in that few seconds of afterglow he’s almost fond of her - sure, it’s all just passing time, but at least they both know the score. This is as true as either of them get.

“At least I’m never lonely.” Reyes smiles.

His burgeoning business between Kadara and Elaadan remains… interesting. Being the Charlatan is occasionally a life full of intrigue and danger but a ledger is a ledger even when fragmentation grenades have their own line item. Reyes loves his work - he wouldn’t survive if he didn’t - but it is a mish-mash of shootouts and dull, late-night flights, coordinating covert maneuvers while chatting up potential contacts and keeping an eye on the new recruits, always watching for standouts or spies. 

It means anticipating cultural differences with the krogan and sanity differences with quite a few of his suppliers and one of his better sources is now demanding hazard pay because the giant metal worm is standing between him and the next big score. Of course, who _wouldn’t_ want to leave Thresher Maw 2.0 behind on their way out of the galaxy? Otherwise, someone might decide to make off with all of that scrap and rock and searing, endless nothingness.

The Pathfinder saves the Moshae, and everyone discovers the Kett’s dirty little secret. 

On Kadara, the Angara mourn for days, and Reyes’ profit increases in the tools of grief - bells and candles and beautiful, multicolored papers to be woven into loops and burned, cut out into the shapes of the lost and turned to ashes on the wind. Reincarnation is a tenet of their faith - the Kett aren’t just destroying one life, but immortal futures and vast histories. He thinks that maybe some of the Angara on this planet are the loners, the ones who don’t fit in as well with tight families and emotional displays - but after they learn about the Kett, the bars are overrun with groups of Angara sitting together and talking, or just drinking, leaning into each other for hours at a time.

He finds Keema on one of the highest points of the port, a little platform pointed away from the settlement and out over the clouds that break here and there, revealing glimpses of color and foliage beneath. 

Reyes sits down beside her, arms against the railing, legs dangling over the edge. The sound of ships moving in and out of the docks is a soft and steady hum that barely counts as breaking the silence.

“I’ve told you before about the Geth, in the Milky Way?” 

Reyes never lost anyone close to one of those spikes, but even enemies of enemies, even knowing the _name_ of someone he’d only seen once on the other side of a crowded room, that they were out there somewhere, and no longer human… 

He’d had one run-in with a handful of Geth, an unlucky encounter on a derelict ship, and his side had the advantage in numbers and guns, but still, it’s not a pleasant memory, and there had been a little comfort, thinking he’d at least put six hundred years of distance between himself and that.

The Kett can’t turn humans. At least not yet.

“It’s not really the same thing, is it?” Keema says quietly, and she takes the bottle when he hands it over, but doesn’t drink.

“I suppose not.”

They’re high enough, that the winds even manage to carry above the worst of the smell - up here, when the light is right, Kadara could almost be mistaken for something a little more rare, and precious.

“They took my true mother, Vidal.” Her voice is a low and desperate growl. “When I was very young. It never, I never - I was _proud_. I knew that she died fighting, that she was brave. I knew it… and now? What if, all this time… what if she is still out there? What if…?”

He’ll have bruises later, from the places Keema digs in, holding on to him while she keens with grief and rage, but it’s the only thing that he can do and so Reyes does it. You can’t fault the Angara for courage or grit - an entire generation against an enemy capable of such horrors, and they’ve managed to hold their own. Still, they deserved to know this from the start - and this is the power of secrets, this is the price they can exact. 

Reyes remembers the way they spoke of the Shadow Broker, even in the Citadel. A figure who stood outside the usual halls of power, and held more of it than any of them. No one knew who or where or how, and so he was everyone and everywhere. Always a place at the top, for a man who knows everything, who can step back and see how it all fits together - and if they do manage to survive here, there’s going to have to be another master of secrets in Andromeda, and it’s damn well going to be the Charlatan. 

Reyes sends a note with his condolences to Evfra de Tershaav, to the whole of the Resistance for their pain and loss. He expects the silence that follows, but graciousness costs nothing, and occasionally can lead to an unexpected reward.

—————————————

The Pathfinder unfucks Voeld.

The Collective steals half a month’s worth of protection fees from a convoy that’s not quite as quick as they should be. Sloane offers up another half-month’s bounty for anyone with Collective ties, and two men are piked at the gate alongside what’s left of the Kett. Which would be more disheartening if Reyes recognized either one of them - whoever the poor bastards were, they weren’t any of his. The Outcasts are still in control, the Collective still the rising upstart, but everyone’s aware of the new player in town, even though no one’s quite sure if the Pathfinder’s on his way.

 _He’ll have to, right? He’ll show up._

Reyes could almost hear the thought land on Kadara Port, from the dock workers all the way down to even the raiders who aren’t too blitzed on drugs or poison to remember there’s a bigger world out there - wouldn’t it be nice, if the rain didn’t always threaten to eat through tires and metal and allies? What if the water were a drinkable number of colors? 

Maybe, just maybe, they ought to let the Pathfinder unfuck Kadara _before_ they draw straws on who gets to kill him and how?

“So… say they just decide to hang back, and bomb us from orbit?” Keema says, because she never stops planning for the worst, and even comes up with creative new disasters as a hobby. It isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, if the Nexus gets its feet under itself - a lot of bad blood, a lot of wounded pride during the Uprising and Kadara may be useful but Kadara Port itself is as expendable as most of the people who live there.

“The Resistance wouldn’t let innocent Angarans get caught in the crossfire.”

Keema snorts. “Innocent? We are talking about the same port?”

Even so, it seems unlikely that the Resistance would allow the Initiative to be so cavalier, just on principle, and Reyes doesn’t think the Pathfinder would let it happen, in any case. 

Given the power at his disposal, the Pathfinder could have started asking for deals or payments or leadership rights two planets ago. You can hear the edge in Tann’s voice, in the newest broadcasts, tying Ryder’s actions to the Initiative as often as he can, as if there’s anything he _could_ do if the man went rogue - but at least for now, he’s in luck. All the Pathfinder seems to want is to follow the wishes of his father, to sort things out, make allies and fight the Kett and build the paradise he’d come here to find. 

The Director is luckier than he deserves, but Reyes has faith that he’ll still fuck it up somehow.

“I’d bother complaining that you’re not here, but I can’t remember when you actually were.” Zia says, arms crossed and eyes narrowed with annoyance, and Reyes realizes he can’t remember a single word of the conversation he’s supposed to be having, not even the tone or what expression he ought to have on his face. It’s dangerous, to be so preoccupied, and obviously time to break things off between them, and he’d tell her so but Zia’s already gone. Reyes likes to imagine he won’t see her again someday, down the barrel of a gun, but his luck isn’t usually _that_ good.

It isn’t good enough, for the Collective to get to Vehn Terev before the Outcasts do - that would have been a nice gift to wrap up and deliver to the Resistance, instead of being a piece of unearned goodwill for Sloane. Terev is big news, enough so that it isn’t even Reyes’ job to report it - instead, there’s a notice from Evfra himself, with the words Reyes has been waiting to hear.

\- PATHFINDER INBOUND, EXPECTING SHENA AT THE SONG. WE NEED TEREV ALIVE. 

One day, there’ll be a more impressive city than a few prefab buildings stapled to the side of a cliff. One day, Kadara will be a functioning planet with a mostly functioning metropolis, and somewhere in that sprawling mélange of chaos and culture and species, someone will build a church, and Reyes will have to go there and light a candle for Evfra de Tershaav.

Today, Reyes smiles, and then he makes sure that the Collective is watching the skies, waiting for Tempest’s call sign to come in, that there are eyes on that ship and its crew from the moment they break atmo until the moment Reyes strolls into the bar, still wearing the same smile.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.”

It never hurts to start with an offering, and so Reyes holds out the glass. The Pathfinder turns, and pauses - and reaches back. He doesn’t look much like his picture at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Seducing the Pathfinder has been quietly climbing up the ranks of preferable options for a while now. Reyes works better mixing business with pleasure, and he can certainly be… flexible, in the pursuit of a goal, and ready to swallow his pride - ahem - if it gets him the results he’s looking for. So yes, he’s ready to _paso doble_ for any number of possible Scott Ryders - the Initiative boyscout, the ambitious explorer; egotistical or naive, reckless or by-the-book. There’s very little that Reyes hasn’t seen before, and if Ryder surprises him by being some flavor of secret bastard - well, he’s dealt with that too.

Mother of God, just don’t let him be dull. Reyes has endured enough of that already.

“I was expecting someone more… angaran.”

No sign of that Alliance smile - Ryder is polite, but cautious. Obviously, he’s heard enough about Kadara to be wary, but there’s a weariness that hadn’t been in that old photograph. The kind of thing that tends to happen when the best laid plans collapse into a cascade failure. The Pathfinder’s still a young man, but one with all his certainties and second chances stripped away, with decisions that were never supposed to be his to make all demanding his attention, all with life or death consequences attached. He looks like he’s expecting the worst, for any reason at any time. Reyes wonders if he’s had a single moment to breathe since he’d woken up on the Hyperion.

_Oh, you beauty. I’m going to take good care of you._

It’s always easy to be charming, especially when the ulterior motives are the actual motives. There is nothing on the Pathfinder’s agenda - fix the planet, establish an outpost, bring stability and trade and newer, richer marks to con - that doesn’t align perfectly with Reyes’ goals. It is entirely to his benefit to become the Pathfinder’s best friend on Kadara.

“It takes a brave man,” Reyes says, “to go wandering around this port in Initiative colors.”

A small, wry smile peeks out for a moment from behind all that Pathfinder professionalism.

“I think everyone here already knows exactly who I am.” 

Reyes is close enough to see the Pathfinder’s gaze go ever so slightly unfocused, as if he’s had a sudden insight - and that might be what communicating with his AI looks like. Reyes had heard a rumor of a rumor once, the kind of capabilities the SAM connection has, the raw potential - and Alec Ryder had to get blacklisted for something, after all. Does his crew even know? What else can he do, besides bringing entire planets back to life? Reyes is ravenously curious - just _imagine_ what that sort of an edge… well, he doesn’t have to imagine, not with three worlds’ worth of proof in the Pathfinder’s wake. Maybe if he’s clever, if he asks the right questions, then just _maybe_ …

Ryder listens to him explain the situation on Kadara with quiet interest, curious and attentive while giving impressively little away. Reyes knows that there’s more to do with Terev than just bringing a traitor back to the Resistance - Kett hunting, it has to be - but that’s business he’s quite happy to let the Pathfinder sort out. 

The plan for Terev’s extraction is relatively simple, presuming the Pathfinder goes along with it, presuming he doesn’t argue Sloane down into a firefight in her throne room first. It seems unlikely - the Pathfinder is so quiet and reserved he’d pass for unremarkable, if Reyes hadn’t been watching him for months, didn’t have the checklist of successes. Ryder’s playing his cards close to his chest - which isn’t the worst strategy on Kadara, and gaining his trust will be a pleasant way to pass the time.

The only factor Reyes can’t account for is Sloane, and if she does see this all for the opportunity it is - well, that’s a shotgun to the kneecap of the whole plan. For all that he’s shaken up the Heleus Cluster, the Pathfinder plays a fairly conservative game. Sloane Kelly is already in charge of Kadara Port, and if she recognizes what’s on offer - the Initiative the way it was meant to be, the seeds of immense prosperity for what would likely amount to only minor concessions on her part, even grudgingly… well, whatever happens, at least it’s begun, and there’s no more waiting around. 

“How do I contact you if things go south?”

As if keeping in touch is ever going to be a problem. Reyes turns and winks - and then stiffs him with the tab. No time like the present, to find out if the Pathfinder is charmed by a dashing scoundrel.

——————————————

Sloane fucks it up like a champion. If there were any to be had, Reyes would send her flowers. 

She sneers and poses and defends her territory with all the subtlety of a rabid varren, offering nothing to the Pathfinder but contempt. In the meantime, the Collective sneaks Terev out the back door, and word reaches Reyes even with the last few rays of sun filtering out of the sky - the Pathfinder’s heading out into the Badlands with the dawn, and he’s been asking about Remnant ruins.

The Collective prides itself on a slightly brighter class of reprobate, even at the baseline, but the Charlatan sends out another all points warning, for anyone who needed the reminder. The Pathfinder and his crew are VIP’s, on the port and in the wilds and anywhere else they want to be. Yes, this may make things inconvenient. Yes, they’ll deal with it as the need arises. 

It’s impossible to keep tabs on Ryder in every corner of the Badlands - there’s just too much that’s too bad, hostile to everyone and everything - but if the opportunity presents itself, it’s advisable to take out any pesky raiders or raging beasts that might impede his progress. Otherwise, keep a fair distance, under _no_ circumstances engage or exchange fire, and if by some unholy act of an idiot god you do manage to injure or kill the Pathfinder _before_ he’s fixed the planet? Everyone will know your name and where to find you. 

“Yeah, uh, I just watched him no scope a couple of raiders out of their shuttle up here near Varren’s Scalp.” A scout calls in on the common channel. “Poor bastards barely got the doors open. And, mmm, he’s got a krogan with him. A really angry one. I don’t think he’s going to have any problems.”

Reyes doesn’t know what kind of soldier Alec Ryder was, the methods he preferred, or if the son takes after the father, but it seems… unlikely. The Pathfinder is as cautious in the field as he is in conversation - infiltration tactics, a decided lack of bravado. All tactical cloaking and sniper rifles, flanking the enemy while his team comes in hard from the opposite side. It’s a little sneaky, more guerrilla than basic Alliance tactics and Reyes thinks maybe he and Ryder might have more in common than he first assumed.

The Pathfinder’s progress is slow, for those first couple of days - there are more patchwork settlements scattered across Kadara than anything like Havarl or Voeld, more exiles than even Reyes can keep track of. Of course the Pathfinder has his base responsibilities, but there’s still a lot of room for interpretation on just how far that job extends - and Ryder does things on Kadara the way he’s handled most everything else Reyes has taken notes on. It’s all hearts and minds, helping out one settlement at a time, fixing what’s broken, helping anyone who asks with tasks both big and small - firing up one of the monoliths in the process, and then another, and Reyes wishes he had a closer look at how that was happening, but the most any of his scouts ever see are Remnant guardians exploding like fireworks.

“So… where’s Initiative Boy today?” 

The nickname started out with a bit of spite attached, but the more the Pathfinder deals with the worst of what Kadara has to offer, the more good he does, and the less reasons people find to tease. A lot of chatter, of course, ever since the Tempest touched down - the Pathfinder just keeps being interesting, on a planet where the most novel thing is usually who got eaten by what, and if they left anything of value behind. The common channel’s not the most secure thing in the world, but Sloane is still pretending she doesn’t care if the Pathfinder’s there or not, so why not let her and all her friends listen in to the good news?

“I’ve got him over by that place near the hill, the one with all those little angaran kids? He’s… uh, looks like he’s handing out treats. Who the fuck is this guy?” The scout says in a mix of bemusement and irritation, and a moment later a gasp that has Reyes slightly concerned until… “Hanar Pops. I repeat, I see _Hanar Pops_.”

“… What flavor?” 

“Fuck, looks like… cherry? Maybe lychee, too. You ever have the lychee?” 

A groan, from elsewhere on the comms. Someone’s had the lychee.

“Pathfinder’s not that special.” A new voice grumbles. “If we had Nyx on our squad, we could be handing out candy to orphans too.”

Vetra’s been making her own quiet inroads around the port since the Tempest touched down - just asking a few questions, getting a lay of the land. The Charlatan’s made a polite offer - since she’s here, how can he not - but so far, there’s been no reply. It might not even matter anymore, if he raises the bid- it seems the Pathfinder is good enough to inspire some loyalty among his crew. 

“You don’t think… they’re not _making_ Hanar Pops, are they?”

A fervent conversation breaks out over the current viability of various planets, the Nexus’ hypothetical capacity for making junk food, and what Kadara might one day contribute to that noble goal.

Soon, Reyes is going to lose quite a few of the new recruits, and maybe even some of the older ones. The people who chose the Collective over starvation, or solitary exile. The sort of people the Pathfinder will no doubt invite back into the fold - he seems like the pardoning kind. Reyes picks his battles, with no good reason not to let them go - and a few of the more clever ones may even decide that a Collective paycheck might be the best way to settle themselves on some other world that he’d like to know about, that it’s in their benefit to stay in touch. Not all useful information is illicit, or risky to pass around. The nice thing is, once a reputation gets established, there are even those who will seek him out first, either in hopes of selling what they know, or that the Charlatan will see fit to act on the news.

Which is how he’s been keeping tabs on the increasing spate of murders, and how he pins down where the perpetrators have their home, _and_ how he finds out that the Pathfinder’s people are waiting on a few upgrades to push forward on the vault. The Roekaar are kind enough to leave a fresh kill practically on the Song’s doorstep - Ryder will have to handle this, and the rumors will start where they need to, that it was the Collective’s maneuvering that got the Pathfinder involved, that they care about the people where Sloane sees only threats and nuisances, pockets to be emptied before they’re thrown to the wilds. 

The Collective stands with the Pathfinder, and he’s about to make a whole lot of people’s lives a whole lot better.

There’s still no real chance of taking the port by force. Sloane has hardened fighters and fortified positions - even if they did win, it would be a slaughter. Still, if Reyes can get the population on his side, they might be able to bleed Sloane slowly, set up alternate arrangements with the traders and shift more business to the slums and just generally cause chaos. Sloane isn’t the sort of person to face uncertainty with rational, measured responses - nothing she does in retaliation is going to make her more popular.

Sending the Pathfinder out to scour for information is also a better chance to see what SAM can do, that silent partner in the Pathfinder’s team - and what the AI’s capable of is gathering enough evidence to implicate the Roekaar to the Resistance’s satisfaction in less time than it takes Ryder to drive out there. Less time than it takes Reyes to sneak into the Roekaar base and set up a nice surprise for an enemy distracted by the Pathfinder’s arrival.

“You don’t have to do this.” Ryder is saying, hands raised and empty, flanked by Jaal and Nyx. He takes the krogan in with him to clean out raider camps, but in most other cases it’s the angaran by his side. Is it for proof, constant reporting back to Efvra, that the Pathfinder isn’t lying? Or does he hope that maybe even some situations with the Roekaar might still tip in their favor? “I’m not Sloane, and she doesn’t speak for us. I want the Angara to be strong. We can fight the Kett together, we can help each other. No one else has to die.”

Trying to talk them down, even now. It would have been nice, if the revelation about the Kett might at least have focused the Roekaar’s fury toward the greater and more horrifying threat - even in Kadara at its worst, one of these ‘invaders’ is not like the other - but the end result has only seemed to be more confusion, and anger, and fear. 

“You are all the same.” The Angaran woman snarls, brandishing the dagger. Reyes’ cue to enter, guns blazing, upstage right. 

“You’re late.” The Pathfinder says, diving for cover.

“I’ve got a good reason.” Reyes says. “You’ll see in three…”

He’s been counting the seconds back, and the explosion comes just as he’d hoped, as the Angara rush forward. All right, so there were a few more of them than he was expecting, and the smoke and dust provide as much cover to the enemy as to them. Reyes braces himself as the first Roekaar come into view, he’ll have to make every shot-

_PowPowPowPowPow._

Automatic speed, with sniper accuracy, but it’s only a pistol in the Pathfinder’s hand - and then the shimmer of a tactical cloak as he disappears from view. Reyes had wondered how Ryder handled short-range combat, and the answer seems to be ‘impossibly.’ Even with their visors, Jaal and Vetra take an extra moment to line up their shots - but Reyes hears that pistol again, another full clip emptied just as fast, from further in the cave than he’d thought it possible for the Pathfinder to reach. 

He fires off a few rounds of his own, taking down a handful of the enemy and pushing even more into the line of Jaal or Vetra’s fire. The fight doesn’t last as long as he’s sure the Roekaar would have liked, and not at all to the end they’d been hoping for.

“Everyone all right?” The Pathfinder’s voice over comms, as the dust and smoke finally begin to settle.

“This will never be all right.” Jaal murmurs, shaking his head.

“All in one piece, Pathfinder.” Vetra says, and Reyes is surprised when taloned fingers come into view, the turian offering him a hand up.

“It’s nice to finally see you in action.” He accepts her help, with the usual smile. “Quite a shame that our paths never crossed on the _Nexus_.”

“You seem like the kind of guy who stands out.” Vetra says. “Funny that I don’t remember you.” Her voice is professional - not friendly, not unfriendly - but there’s a look in her eyes that he imagines is quite similar to when she was lining up her shots a few moments ago. She glances away, back into the cave. “You okay, Ryder?”

“Yeah. Be right with you. We should probably take a look around, but watch out for traps. Jaal?”

“Understood.” The Angaran is kneeling down next to one of the Roekaar bodies - the leader, giving her a brief once-over before moving to the next. Taking identification, maybe, to be sent back to the Resistance, or to whoever it was she was trying so hard to defend. Reyes will need to get a copy of that list, Keema will want to know.

Keema might very well want this place, once they clear it out. He begins taking a casual inventory - what’s been destroyed, what will need to be rebuilt or should be repurposed. A decent space, maybe worth rewarding to the next Collective smuggler who gets past Sloane’s increasingly watchful eye. The Initiative will remember it, of course, which could limit its usefulness - maybe he can offer it up as a place for them to store surplus Hanar Pops.

Reyes finds the Pathfinder near the back of the cave, hands on his knees and leaning against the wall. Eyes closed, still breathing a bit raggedly, though he glances up at Reyes’ approach.

“Sorry. Just… need another minute. Nice job with that explosion.”

He seems a little shaken. Reyes wonders if he’d ever actually killed anyone before he came to Andromeda. A few of the Roekaar lay nearby, and Reyes can’t tell for certain, but he’d guess none of them required a second shot.

“You were a good distraction.” He says. “That was some… very impressive shooting.“

The Pathfinder shakes his head. “Wasn’t all me, but thanks.”

Maybe it isn’t just nerves, that has him looking so pale.

“The AI?” Reyes asks.

“A self-defense protocol.” SAM speaks up. “I can briefly enhance the Pathfinder’s reflex speed and focus, however the strain and subsequent recovery time do not advise implementation in most combat situations.”

“You made the right call, SAM.” Ryder says. “As usual.” 

So, the AI is making decisions - on its own, or with Ryder’s prior consent - to flood the Pathfinder’s body with adrenaline and cortisol and who knows what else, to make him into a better killer. Reyes is willing to bet it goes even further than that. The precision of those shots, the speed - ‘mechanical’ is the word he’d use. Why bother making small improvements on human abilities, when an AI can just step in and do the job perfectly? The Pathfinder is what, then - some kind of… hybrid? SAM isn’t just some highly-tuned personal Avina, offering advice and scanning for clues, much more powerful than the half-shackled assistant it’s been sold as. Definitely the kind of thing that could get a decorated soldier shitcanned without prejudice, and fired out of the galaxy as far as he could go. 

Definitely not boring.

“The port owes you its gratitude. I could buy you a drink on their behalf?”

The Pathfinder laughs. It’s a good sound. Reyes wouldn’t mind hearing it again.

“What, you mean like the last time?”

“Something like that.” Reyes smiles - and Ryder smiles back. It seems he might have a thing for rogues, after all.

“We’ve got a little business to finish up first,” The vault, he has to mean the vault. “But after that… yeah. Count me in.”

——————————

The Pathfinder unfucks Kadara. 

Reyes meets him at the bar.


	4. Chapter 4

Reyes was going to meet the Pathfinder at the bar. Honest.

It has to happen in Tartarus, because the minute the Pathfinder stumbled out of the vault, slightly battered and victorious, Sloane called a ‘security emergency’ throughout the upper levels of the port, just in case any impromptu celebrations felt like breaking out. Jumping the gun, as usual - no one’s excited yet because there’s nothing to see. It’s not exactly instantaneous, turning a planet on and off again - but he has people taking readings in the local water supply, and already the equipment isn’t melting as fast as it usually does.

A Collective rule - you only celebrate with Sloane’s liquor. So when Dagher sees him coming, he’s already reaching for the top shelf. 

“Time to mix up the titrin?”

“Not yet.” He’ll raise that glass to Gartan’s life when he’s toasting Sloane Kelly’s empty throne. For now, anything the Outcasts toiled to bring planetside will work just fine. 

“I’m meeting someone.” Reyes says. “Do you have any of those little spiced pea pod things handy? The crunchy ones?” One of the only foods native to Kadara that isn’t mostly inedible. Kian gives him the side-eye, because he’s been tending bar approximately from the womb, and would be dangerous if he had any greater ambitions than watching the world go by.

“So _we’re_ giving the Pathfinder snacks now? Shit, Vidal, d’you want me as ringbearer or a bridesmaid?” He’s grinning, though. As pleased as anyone that they’re not going to die here, at least not in the slow, dwindling, pathetic way they’d all pretended wasn’t lurking in their peripheral vision. Now things can actually start getting interesting.

The bartender’s gaze shifts a fraction of an inch over his shoulder - mild curiosity, nothing dangerous, and so Reyes keeps his hand off his gun as he turns around, the polite smile quickly slipping into something more honestly amused. No one has ever looked at him as if they both need his help and would rather do anything than ask for it than the good Dr. Nakamoto. 

No greeting, of course, just the doctor’s long-suffering sigh as Reyes leans against the bar, sipping his drink.

“I vouched for you, when the Pathfinder asked.” He says, tipping the glass in Nakamoto’s direction. “I assume you’re satisfied with the results?”

Oblivion was the final tipping point, in being able to rally the last few holdouts to rise up against the Outcasts, to unify the opposition into a truly two-sided clash. Anyone with half a brain saw the drug for the real danger it would become. A stronger ecosystem, a resilient port in a stable economy could manage a drug trade - _trade_ being the operative word, and even then Reyes had seen the routine shakedowns across various systems, the effort it took to keep the red sands both profitable and under control, and that wasn’t on a planet like Kadara, with no way out and no decent commerce and hope slowly dying.

Believe it or not, Reyes isn’t opposed to the concept of Sloane Kelly - at least in theory. If things were different, she’d be a decent hammer for any number of nails. Look at what she had accomplished, abandoning the Nexus with only two weeks of supplies to no guarantee of a destination - and not only had she survived, but she’d scattered the Kett with brutal efficiency.

An effective warlord - but she’s not a criminal, not born to it. Sloane could punch and shoot and strong-arm for cash like the best of them, but she didn’t understand that being in charge meant more than just looking coldly down from on high, collecting fees and delivering beatings. At the end of the day, everything she truly knew about villainy came from the best of the Milky Way’s most popular crime vids.

Oblivion would rot Sloane’s entire kingdom out from under her, and she’d never understand why.

Nakamoto still hasn’t spoken, obviously fighting the urge to just turn around and walk back out. He’s always ignored the Collective’s overtures - he’ll patch them up without questions, the same way he’ll patch anyone up, but the doctor’s firmly committed to his independence. Once bitten, Reyes supposes. Which shouldn’t give him any complaints against an ordinary smuggler - does the doctor suspect that Reyes is more than he seems to be, or does Nakamoto just not like _him_? 

To be fair, it could be both. Unfortunately for Nakamoto, all it’s done is make their occasional meet-ups more amusing. Like now, as the doctor frowns down at the courtesy shot Dagher puts in front of him, sliding it back with a fingertip.

“A shuttle crashed in the Badlands, a little over an hour ago.” He says, quietly.

Reyes leans forward. “Crashed?”

Nakamoto sighs. “Fine, I don’t know. Maybe they sold me out for a better deal. Maybe it was an ambush. But I need confirmation, either way. The cargo is… worth recovering.”

Kadara’s a big planet, and there are places too dangerous to rely on that are still worth risking for the truly greedy or desperate. The Collective has maybe eighty-five percent coverage between the major and minor trading routes, including everything they know the Outcasts are moving, whether they can disrupt it or not. Until now, Reyes hadn’t heard that the doctor was cutting deals with outside sources - and it’s clear Nakamoto had wanted to keep it that way. Interesting.

“Well, as long as the cargo is worthy…” He trails off, waiting.

Nakamoto scowls - again, unfortunate, as it does nothing but make Reyes want to smile more. If he’s worried that the Collective might get… less than civil, that’s a mostly unfounded paranoia. A Salarian can count up the doctors on Kadara and have fingers left over - the Pathfinder might be the most valuable person in Andromeda, but experienced medical staff come in a close second, with even basic medi-gel still in unsteady supply. 

He reaches out for the shot the doctor pushed aside, taking it for himself.

“You really should try to relax once in a while.” Reyes toasts. “Maybe consider a more reliable source of transport? My fees are quite competitive.”

“The medicine’s dextro. All of it.”

Which explains his hesitation. Reyes tips the shot back, watches Nakamoto watch him, sees Dagher raise an eyebrow from where he’s standing, pretending he’s not listening in. The doctor wouldn’t have come to Reyes if there were other options, or time to come up with a plan - which probably means the Outcasts have an ear out, at the least. A lot more turians in their ranks, with fewer suppliers and still no more than rumors of the Turian ark. Nakamoto has a right to be nervous. This is more than profit. A haul like that commands the sort of price that could buy the Charlatan a few new eyes and ears in the Outcasts. Or more, if the timing were right. 

“Half.”

“I can’t.” Nakamoto says.

“Seventy percent.” Reyes says, because this isn’t a negotiation but Nakamoto doesn’t move - and maybe he has some idea of his worth after all.

“Every bottle, every drop is necessary. I can’t-” He stops, grimaces. He has to barter with something, after all. “Thirty percent, and anything else you take from the wreckage is yours. You’ll also have the route they used - I’m sure _someone_ would pay for that. You’ll get all the coordinates I have.”

“We’ll discuss the details later, if these profits are more than hypothetical.” Reyes says, fully intending to push for half, certain Nakamoto will cave once he actually has his hands on the goods. If he can get his hands on the goods. He should already be moving.

Reyes turns, pondering whether or not it might be useful to have a backup gun, and who might be available, who might be trustworthy - and then he realizes that Nakamoto’s going to keep every last drop of the haul, no matter how difficult it is to recover. This is a charity job now, because that’s the Pathfinder coming through the door.

Reyes doesn’t break stride, grabbing Ryder by the wrist and turning him right back the way he came. Thankfully, this is the slums, so he’s still both fully armored and armed.

“Nice to see you too.” The Pathfinder says. “Bad night?”

“Busy night. Care to join me?”

The more he sees, the more Reyes thinks the Pathfinder’s sense of duty is much more obligation than personal interest, any Alliance respectability no more than a few microns thick. He’s young, he wants to be tempted, and Reyes sees the curiosity spark in his eyes.

“I’m not going to get that drink, am I?”

Reyes reaches out as they pass by a table, snatching a bottle out of the hand of whoever’s closest and passing it to the Pathfinder. They’re out the door and into the night before anyone can even think to protest.

—————————————

What Reyes borrows to get them there is a mish-mash of Angaran, Kett and Initiative tech all welded together into something vaguely aerodynamic, with a name that translates into something like ‘thrown ball of mud’ in the local parlance. It’s not so much a vehicle as the vague concept of one, but it’s quiet and fast and Ryder rolls his eyes when he realizes where the passenger’s supposed to end up. Still, when Reyes gets himself in the driver’s seat, Ryder’s right there behind him, pressed against his back and arms tight around his waist and there are many worse ways to spend an evening in the Badlands.

“Comfortable, Ryder?” Reyes says over the comms. Helmets are necessary at these speeds, and if they want any hope of communicating. The connection’s clear enough that he can hear the Pathfinder’s huff of amusement.

“I never rode on the back of someone’s bike before. Maybe later we can trade baseball cards. Toilet paper the teacher’s house. Shoplift some dirty magazines.”

“They warned me about boys like you.”

Ryder laughs - finding him more amusing than annoying, which is already better than half his successful liaisons. The Pathfinder hasn’t even asked yet, why Reyes has dragged him out here, or where exactly he’s being dragged to. Either Ryder trusts him, which seems unlikely, or SAM has been tracking his every move, ready to relay it to the crew if anything should go wrong. He’s relying on some combination of his AI and his own ingenuity to see him through - which has certainly been working for him so far.

“I received a tip about a crashed ship and a valuable cargo, if we can find it.” Reyes says. “It’s been a few hours, so I doubt we’re the only ones looking. Which might make things interesting enough that I’ll need backup.”

Reyes could keep his cover if he really wanted to, and still avoid going out in the field, but he prefers this. He bores too easily, success leads too quickly to complacency - the surprises keep him sharp.

“So what…” The Pathfinder says. “We’re vultures now?”

“Vultures with guns.” Reyes says. “We’ll be stealing from thieves, Pathfinder - it’s either a net good or the evil cancels itself out.”

“I would love to see the math on that.”

The Pathfinder’s leaning against him, but they’re both fully armored - it’s not exactly an intimate situation. Still, with the night so quiet, Reyes can indulge in a few moments of idle fantasy, what it might be like to slowly peel Scott Ryder out of that suit. He enjoys this part, after the research is over - getting to measure the reality against what he thinks he knows, learning who the Pathfinder is beyond just numbers on a page. Reyes can’t say he’s ever had a real thing for pampered rich boys, at least not for longer than it takes to roll them for their bank accounts - but despite the odds, Ryder isn’t just some high-bred idiot slumming it for the thrills. Well, not only for the thrills.

The stars seem brighter than usual, burning through a slowly declining haze. Wishful thinking, or signs of what’s to come? Keema knows a few stories of the ancient Eden this place was supposed to be - too good to be true, the kind of tales every civilization tells to cheer itself up. The same way they tried to sell it, when this had been Habitat 4 - and who knows what could happen now? 

“What kind of speech are you planning for Kadara?” Reyes says. “Everyone’s looking forward to it, after the one you gave for Voeld.”

“Oh god, I don’t know.” Ryder says. “Something Kadara something brave adventurers something something how am I still alive something the bar?”

“Well, it’s at least as inspirational as what brought us here.” Reyes says. “Maybe try it in N7 armor next time? That might rally the troops.”

Reyes realizes he’s just said the wrong thing. He can feel it, the mood cold and tense even over comms, even when he can’t see the Pathfinder’s face.

“That rank belonged to my father.” Ryder’s voice is brittle, not quite angry. “You have to earn the right to wear that.”

“Fair point.”

The argument could be made, of course, that you had to earn a crew as skilled as his, or a ship like the Tempest… or being the Pathfinder at all. 

Reyes’ own life has been mostly about repurposing what’s available, taking any opportunity available and to hell with what he deserves - integrity doesn’t do much to fuel a ship out of town - but he also isn’t in the habit of shooting himself in the foot over a philosophical point. 

Interesting, though, just how much Ryder shut down - was that grief for his father, or something else? The reminder that he wasn’t N7, wasn’t anything like the first choice for this mission? Reyes tucks it aside, a question for later. 

He doesn’t notice any danger, the night clear and calm, but the Pathfinder suddenly leans back, draws his gun and fires into a nearby clump of trees just in time to dissuade another colorful example of Kadaran wildlife from introducing itself fangs-first. A shot through the eye, actually - Reyes watches the creature slump over as he pulls the bike into a turn. He might not have even needed the AI’s assistance - Ryder has a few awards for marksmanship scattered here and there throughout his records. Still, there’s no good reason not to ask.

“What exactly do you two talk about, when nothing’s trying to kill you?”

“If that ever happens, I’ll let you know.” Ryder says, with another slight laugh, holstering his gun.

“It doesn’t ever leave you alone, does it?” Reyes says, feigning a bit less understanding than he has, just to see if the Pathfinder might offer up anything interesting. “Can you shut it off? What if it decides to-”

“It’s a trade. A symbiotic relationship.” Ryder interrupts, and his voice is carefully neutral, guarded. “SAM provides tactical support, and I give him a steady stream of information. He protects me, and I show him the world. “The Scott Ryder Show.” He’s drumming the fingers on his right hand lightly against Reyes’ side - a nervous gesture, one he’s probably not even aware of. “A lot of people aren’t… too comfortable with the idea. No matter how much he's saved our asses. I… I’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet, about SAM. If that’s something you do.”

Reyes smiles.

“Your secrets are my secrets, Pathfinder.”

—————————————

Between Nakamoto’s information and SAM’s scanning capabilities, it’s easy to find the site of the crash. A patch of sky the Collective hadn’t kept as close a watch on, any route that could avoid detection too steep and too blind to be worth risking, except for the most daring or desperate. It’s a damn shame, the pilot was good, and would have likely succeeded if not for the shot that brought them to earth. Reyes figures it’s not Outcast involvement - they wouldn’t shoot like this and risk damaging the cargo. Which means they’re going to be dealing with bandits or cannibals or cannibal bandits and yes, that does make all the careful lying Reyes did on his Initiative application seem rather silly now.

The Pathfinder is subdued, quieter as the mission finally acquires an official body count. Reyes comes back from checking the empty hold to find him scanning what little is left of the crushed, charred remains, frustrated when there isn’t enough to make an ID. God, he’s so young. So out of place on Kadara. Reyes was never that young, not even at half the Pathfinder’s age. In the places he comes from, everyone ages in Salarian years.

“We’ll finish the job, Ryder. Don’t worry.”

“It shouldn’t be like this. None of this is what we came here to do.”

It’s what happens, though. It’s sweet that Ryder ever thought it could be otherwise. If it wasn’t the Kett and the Nexus imploding, it would have been something else. Reyes’ entire life has been spent profiting from ‘something else’. Betting against people like the Pathfinder, and their dreams.

“You’re doing everything you can - you’ve already done great things. It’s just the beginning, you’ll see.”

Reyes is used to saying whatever the person he’s talking to wants to hear. It’s strange to actually mean it.

“Thanks, Reyes.”

SAM is a cautious navigator, and Reyes Vidal, for all his showboating, is a good pilot. Between the two of them, they find the trail and cover the distance without fanfare, landing within fair view of their quarry, with no one the wiser. 

Unfortunately, that’s where their advantages stop.

It isn’t some ragged band of scavengers who’d tripped over some spare munitions, but a surprisingly large group, with a fairly entrenched settlement. Vehicles and containers and clusters of people camped out around a tall central tower - one of the larger bits of prefab housing they’d launched far in advance, when civilization still seemed like a possibility. Reyes can’t pick out too many details in the scattered light, but he knows what he’d see - paneling faded out by the sun, harshly scrubbed by acid winds. Multiple stories, with a few lookouts staggered out between the levels. It’s not impenetrable, but there’s too many to take by force, and getting anything back out with the cargo would be equally impossible.

He was an idiot, to consider this a two-man job. Reyes should have been calling for reinforcements when they’d found the ship shot down, should have come up with the cover story afterward. But there was still the risk of being discovered, of SAM listening in or Ryder somehow getting suspicious and - no, that’s not it. 

The truth is, he’s been enjoying his time alone with the Pathfinder, more than he expected to. It’s pleasant to talk to anyone who isn’t who isn’t up to their neck in the million little tawdry dealings of Kadara, or who hasn’t worn out their welcome long before he can even meet them in person.

“Hn.” Ryder says after a moment, and draws his rifle, passing it over. “Cover me?”

The number of people who’ve handed Reyes their gun and then turned their back is not particularly high, even if he prefers his betrayals to be slightly less obvious.

“You don’t have to-“

The Pathfinder waves him off. “I’m just going to go in a little closer. See what I can see. I’ll turn around if it looks like trouble.”

In some ways, Ryder seeming so straight-laced, camouflaging himself in beige platitudes is the perfect lie. It will still take Reyes a little while to realize that when the Pathfinder sounds the most rational is when he’s about to fling himself headlong into danger. When he tries to pretend he’s being responsible, what he’s really saying is “Well I can’t stay here, I might get bored.”

In all fairness, Reyes has been hoping for a better look at the Pathfinder’s gun - children, please - and it is a beauty. A Black Widow, though heavily modified from the design specs. Lighter weight, careful balance, what might be a recoil dampener…

“No scoping my ass with that thing.” Ryder says, because of course Reyes is - but there’s a confident, pleased tone in his voice that have certain parts of Reyes paying more attention. It seems the Pathfinder is in his element.

“Quite a weapon, Ryder. I’m glad I’m on this side of it.”

“I tinkered with it some, and then Jaal tinkered with it some more. He’s usually more about killing Kett with their own guns, but this one can punch through the side of a transport, so I think it got his seal of approval. At least until we convince the Isharay that a second round’s not just for people with bad aim.” He takes a slight breath in. “Hold on. I think I can- yeah.”

The connection goes quiet - cut from Scott’s end, though Reyes can still see him through the scope, making his way through the brush and the shadows, past the watch at the perimeter, skirting an unmoving floodlight - and he must engage the tactical cloak, disappearing into one shadow and not coming out the other side. 

Reyes begins a more careful tally of the the enemy ranks, the number of people it would be better to take down if Ryder needed to get back here fast. If he got into trouble in there, if he overstepped or was unlucky… shit, Reyes would have to go in after him, now wouldn’t he? He’s already got too much invested in the Pathfinder to let him get killed over this.

He wonders… “SAM, are you there?”

“Good evening, Mr. Vidal.” The synthetic voice is pleasant, polite over the comms. “The Pathfinder is entering the building now. There is no current threat of detection. If you reposition approximately sixty-seven feet to the west, it would provide a better vantage point through windows on the first, third and fifth floors.”

“Understood, SAM.” Reyes says, and shuffles across the ground, keeping himself as prone as he can. The night is still quiet and the enemy still oblivious. “Is it distracting, talking to the both of us?”

Reyes knows it’s not. The AI probably has enough processing power to keep watch on everything in half the galaxy without much effort. but that makes it even more important to play things just a little bit dumb. Reyes Vidal the helpful smuggler, who knows enough to be useful, but not enough to be interesting, or worthy of extra attention. He already knows a good deal about Ryder, but SAM is uncharted territory.

“I do not have any difficulties tracking the Pathfinder’s current location, Mr. Vidal. Are you distracted?”

“You wound me, SAM. You wound me.” Reyes adjusts his grip on the rifle, bringing a random figure into the sights, and then another, passing momentarily into the light - their gear is in fair shape, and they’ve either scavenged or stolen some of the better building materials to be had outside the wall, but the men themselves are all rough looking and wild, an aggressive sort of disheveled that suggests that even if they wanted to, this is the best they can manage. Maybe some people came to Andromeda just to go crazy.

“Mr. Vidal, I wondered if you would answer a question for me?”

Reyes grins. “Are AI allowed to be curious?”

“Existing data is contradictory. However, the Pathfinder suggests that seeking out multiple alternative viewpoints creates the best opportunity for understanding the organic experience. I was encouraged to make new friends.”

If you’re going to make an AI a mission-critical part of thousands of lives in a new galaxy, you might as well let it out to mingle a bit. Reyes smiles, as he catches a flicker of a cloak at a balcony, Ryder paused for a moment behind a crate, as two men have an inconvenient conversation nearby. Infiltrations can be a wonderful mix of nerve-wracking and tedious - and exciting, he has to admit. Ryder’s not bad at this. If only he was only one of Reyes’, if only he could offer the Pathfinder anything he would actually want or need, after the planet was secure.

“I’d be happy to help you, SAM, although I doubt there’s much you don’t already know about Kadara.”

“The question I have is not about Kadara. It concerns your time on Omega, as the Rainmaker.”

Reyes goes still. Who’s the Rainmaker? If there had been anyone by that frankly ludicrous name, it hadn’t been Reyes Vidal, who had definitely never been anywhere within sight of Sahrabarik, let alone inside the system. The Rainmaker - whoever he’d been - had briefly flickered at the periphery of events, accomplishing a few minor tasks before dying a thoroughly ignoble death, because the alternative meant catching the full attention of Aria T’Loak, and dying an ignoble death that would last significantly longer. Even coming to Andromeda might not have been far enough to escape her wrath, if she’d decided he was an annoyance worth dealing with. Aria, in the way of many Asari with centuries to consider their options, had a bit of a thing for vengeance.

“My files on Omega lack detail and perspective.” SAM continues. “Although a central hub for galactic activity, the nature of most of this commerce inhibits a clear and complete understanding. It seems that there may be parallels between Omega’s operations and the current state of Kadara, and a clearer understanding of both may improve my ability to assist the Pathfinder with mission objectives.” 

On her best day, Sloane Kelly doesn’t have the ruthless cunning of Aria’s left boot, but the AI’s comparison is not without some merit. Of course, the threat is equally clear - if SAM knows enough to know about the Rainmaker, what else has he uncovered? What other connections can an intelligence like that make between seemingly innocuous sets of data, given an near-infinite amount of free time? He’s never been looked over by anyone’s father on a first date, but Reyes has the feeling it might feel something like this. If that father started reading back to him the digits on his last fake ID. His last twenty fake ID’s.

“I assume that Ryder knows about this… particular line of inquiry?”

“The Pathfinder believes that respecting privacy is an important element of leadership. He has asked me to keep any information in my databases confidential, as long as it does not pose a threat to the mission.”

Reyes smiles. The AI may be new to the whole ‘organic perspective’ game, but he’s certainly got the blackmail part down. 

“I think you and I are going to get along quite well, SAM.” He says. “And you would have liked Omega. I wonder-“

“I’ve got the shipment.” Ryder’s soft murmur cuts into the conversation, and Reyes sees the orange flicker of an omni-blade, just for a moment, out the window on - damn, the fourth floor? The Pathfinder’s jumped right into the middle of it, hasn’t he? “It’s not the only thing here. There’s more weapons. Supplies. They’ve been raiding other settlements.”

Lights flicker over a nearby hill, tracing a low arc over a ridge before coming into view - a caravan.

“More incoming, Ryder.”

“I see it.” The Pathfinder says, with a better vantage point than he’s got. “Outcast, or Collective?”

“Hard to be certain.” Reyes says, certain. “From what I hear, the Collective doesn’t hold much ground in this area.”

What are the odds that’s about to change?

“Well, whoever they are,” Ryder says, “they’ve come to party.”


	5. Chapter 5

Reyes Vidal really is a people person. One of those times he can tell the truth and no one believes him anyway. Is it that surprising? The folly of human enterprise is infinitely entertaining, and the folly of salarian and asari and turian is no slouch either. Or the volus. God, he misses the volus.

It’s hard to imagine why anyone would choose a job like this if they weren’t curious, if they didn’t inherently find people interesting. A businessman or a merc could put as much in the bank, if not more. Reyes could be the smuggler everyone assumes him to be and do just fine for himself. But what he really is and what he truly does means surrounding himself with a kaleidoscope of passions and dreams and desires and lies, a limitless number of ways to assemble a life. A dozen different people from the same place - same hardships, same opportunities - can push forward in a dozen different ways - two dozen, three. Reyes succeeds on anticipating the obvious, but he enjoys the unexpected just as often - the clever move, the ruthless one - even acts of kindness and bravery. It’s more profitable to bet on selfishness, but it isn’t always true. 

Witness, Exhibit Pathfinder. 

Reyes is torn between finding a better view of the action and staying where he’ll be of more use if things go suddenly south. SAM’s patched him into what Ryder can hear of the conversation, the two groups slowly opening negotiations - wary, cautious, making their introductions and-

“…. did that guy just say he was the Charlatan?” Ryder says.

“I believe so.” 

Reyes smiles behind the scope. Who is the pretender for his crown this time? The voice is muffled, not one he recognizes offhand. Being entertained by a steady parade of imposters hadn’t been the primary reason for his anonymity, but it has been fun, and a useful way of weeding out any slightly too-ambitious associates.

The pleasantries haven’t immediately erupted into gunfire, although he’d bet both sides still have their fingers firmly on the trigger. Reyes listens as the man makes a proud sales pitch for the Collective - on their way to owning the planet any day now, for anyone interested in joining up - and this is why the Charlatan works in the shadows. Otherwise, he just sounds like a used ship salesman.

“SAM, I have a visual. Any intel?”

The AI provides a brief glimpse for Reyes’ benefit as well - but he can’t match the face to any personal betrayal. Definitely not one of his - probably just another group of bandits, hoping they’re far enough out from the port to use the Collective’s influence without being noticed.

“Database match to Frances Luther Belham of the Nexus advance crew.” SAM says. “Junior facilities and maintenance technician, specializing in wastewater filtration and recycling.”

“…space plumber.” Ryder says. “The Charlatan’s a space plumber?”

Reyes’ smile grows. It’s a wonderful thing, ambition. Especially at odds with ability.

“There is no evidence that relevant Nexus files have been tampered with.” Of course, neither were Reyes’ - he’d lied right from the start, no alterations necessary. “It seems unlikely that the Charlatan would command skills on a path so divergent from his perceived threat potential, Pathfinder.” It’s not meant as a compliment, but Reyes feels oddly proud, regardless.

“So…” Ryder says, “just another everyday, run-of-the-mill, well-armed trainee warlord. Great.”

Space Plumber continues outlining his plan, such as it is - mostly just an escalation of hostilities in the badlands, bragging about ‘insider angara knowledge’ that Reyes knows is bullshit, because anything of value goes through Keema first, and he can’t imagine she has the patience for more than one human with delusions of grandeur at a time. 

“… traveled six-hundred years just to be an asshole on _this_ side of the universe?” Ryder murmurs, increasingly angry as the conversation turns to pillage and carnage and which sort of people would be the most valuable to keep alive after a raid. For all his many sins, Reyes still has a few lines he’s never been inclined to cross - no hard drugs, no playing nice with Cerberus, and leave slavery to the Batarians. “We’ve got to find a way to at least slow them down, we can’t just let these people - ah, shit.”

Gunfire rattles off in Reyes’ ear, echoing the distance as the comms cut out, sharp flashes right around the last place Reyes saw the Pathfinder.

“Ryder?” Reyes says, calm but urgent, switching his view from the scope to the building and back again - the noise has already gathered attention. Thankfully, the two groups are nowhere near friendly enough not to suspect a double-cross, and Reyes lines up a easy shot with the Pathfinder’s stupidly sexy gun, takes down a man on the visiting team just as one of the vehicles parked behind the structure suddenly bursts into flames, adding to the quickly growing chaos.

“Was that you, Pathfinder?” 

“Always be prepared.” Ryder must have attached the bomb on his way in, just in case - sneaky and thoughtful. To think there was a time he’d worried about not liking the Pathfinder well enough.

Reyes takes aim at a member of the home team this time as both sides abandon conversation for the firefight. He’s lost sight of Space Plumber - maybe dead, maybe not. Reyes hopes not - he has a name now, and it’s always at least a little bit amusing, tracking down yet another Charlatan. 

A blip appears on his multitool - the Pathfinder’s vitals, all in the green. SAM must have decided it was information worth sharing - unlike what he’s done to the raiders’ own communications, men now shouting into jammed signals. Still plenty of them in the building, even as Reyes picks off one at a window, a second on the balcony, catches a glimpse of the Pathfinder darting down another floor, a flash as a stray shot pings off his shields. He’s getting pinned down, and though no one’s yet noticed Reyes out in the dark, he’s not going to be able to stop the group of raiders on the ground preparing to attack, especially with the Pathfinder’s Widow chewing through the last of his thermal clips.

“Ryder, there’s too many out here. I can’t clear you a path. I’m going to get closer and try to-” 

“Mr. Vidal.” SAM cuts in. “I need you to adjust your aim to the following trajectory.”

Reyes blinks at the new instructions, far past the building and any enemies and straight out into the dark. “You’ve got me shooting at nothing, SAM.”

“I do not miscalculate, Mr. Vidal.”

The hyper-logical AI is asking him to do a very stupid thing, with the Pathfinder’s life in the balance - so Reyes shifts the gun into the empty void, away from the building and Ryder and the fight, and fires until he’s out of ammunition. For a moment, the only thing it seems he’s done is finally attract enough attention to have a light finally swinging in his direction, a few random shots landing nowhere near his position but it isn’t helping Ryder and -

… and what SAM had him shooting at was a herd of sleeping Eiroch out on the hills - awake now, and not happy about it. The landslide of furious beasts pours down through the camp in an unstoppable wave, overturning vehicles and flinging raiders left and right. The force that had been preparing to attack the Pathfinder quickly scatters, stomped or crushed or fleeing alone into a night that is likely to be no more welcoming. Reyes glances down - Ryder’s vitals still clear, likely still in the building, waiting out the Eiroch along with the cargo.

“Another successful stealth mission.” Reyes says, surveying the mayhem - and the slight laugh comes not from his helmet, but from the outside, as the Pathfinder drops his tactical cloak, helmet in his hand and a grin on his face.

—————————————————

A funny thing, with the fires still burning around the raider’s base, the stars still wheeling overhead in a brilliant cascade and a half-crumbled protein bar along with the the last dregs of Ryder’s beer passed back and forth between them, a companionable silence - this is all skirting surprisingly close to romantic.

All right, so the last of the Eiroch still bashing about bits of wreckage and screeching to each other aren’t exactly roses and violins - but this is Kadara.

It doesn’t hurt that Reyes will be walking away with a tidy profit- a finder’s fee from the supply cache, plus his help sending out the word to get it all cleaned up, to make sure the rest of it doesn’t end up with Kelly and her crew - _or_ the Charlatan, of course. Ryder doesn’t entirely trust him yet, but he also doesn’t have the widest range of options, and smugglers can certainly move goods. Reyes may be losing out on the dextro meds, but Nakamoto will owe him for this - owe the Collective - and in his experience, favors spend farther than credits ever can.

“We’ve got to figure this out. Offer Kadara a way forward, a change.” Ryder says, sighing as he gazes over the wreckage. “I thought that once we started to fix the planet, once they knew that things would get better…”

“Some people are forced to make terrible choices, do things they never though they’d be capable of.” Reyes says. “And some people find that they enjoy it. I wouldn’t worry too much, Pathfinder. The people you’re trying to help, that want help - they’ll realize what you’re offering. The Outcasts… well,” he shrugs, “if they want to stay out, that’s not your fault. Better to have them here than back on the Nexus, don’t you think?”

The Pathfinder nods, grudgingly conceding the point. Reyes searches for a way to lighten the mood.

“So tell me, what exactly did you do down there in Kadara’s core? What is it like, fixing things?”

“Oh, you know, business as usual.” Ryder says. “Shoot Remnant. Make bridges. Flee for the exit while the rebooting sequence tries to kill us.”

Reyes glances over, but it doesn’t look like the Pathfinder is joking.

“What, you just… run for it?”

Ryder shrugs. “It’s worked out pretty well so far. Now, we only have to take care of Elaadan and that’s it. The full set.”

Reyes chuckles. “Industrious, aren’t we?”

“One more, and then we can relax.” Ryder says, in a way that sounds more like a personal mantra, like something he’s been holding on to. “We get that last world up and running like it should be, and then we’ll breathe. Maybe even take a break. Maybe there will be something worth taking a break on.”

“Golden worlds.” Reyes says. “Maybe something like Earth. Did you grow up there?”

He already knows the answer, knows names and dates for most of Ryder’s pre-Alliance days, but Reyes is hardly going to ignore the chance to hear the Pathfinder tell his own story. 

“No, but we visited a couple of times. Vacations.” Ryder says. “Mom wanted us to study there - she said it was important, that we should know where we came from. But right about the time we were supposed to go, well… we ended up at Grissom instead.”

“Grissom Academy?” Reyes frowns. “I thought that was only for biotics. You’re not…”

He waves his hands in a poor approximation of godlike power. Reyes has always been a bit jealous of that ability, though children with such talents in the Terminus were quickly snatched up by one gang or another, only trained as well as whichever biotics were at hand, whoever had survived long enough to pass on their skills. Treated more like weapons than people - it wasn’t the key to a long or happy life.

“No, I mean.. not really.” The Pathfinder looks down at his hands, up at the stars. Scratches absently at the back of his neck, the near-invisible line of his implant scar. “My sister Sara’s the family biotic. She’s strong as hell. I’m.. ah, better at the R&D. _Being_ the R &D, I guess. My biotics never grew in quite right, but the things mom learned to fix what was wrong with me helped make the implants better for everyone.” He grins. “Sara and I - we were close. We still are. When she found out they wanted to send her to Grissom without me, she got a little… loud. Sara’s really good at being loud.”

Reyes hasn’t put as much time into studying the Ryder not currently in play, but he makes a note to go back through everything he’s got on her. Raw data can give him part of the picture, but it can’t give him this - the Pathfinder obviously needing to open up. Worried for her. Which means that if Reyes ever did need to strike, he’s confirmed at least one good target.

“You know, some twins, some siblings, they’d rather be apart? Be their own people? Me and Sara, we didn’t need to be apart to be ourselves.” Ryder sighs. “So yeah… my grades were okay, and it’s not entirely biotics that end up there, _and_ my mother was Ellen Ryder - so it was easier to just let me into Grissom.”

He doesn’t look very proud of the memory. It must have been difficult, being in that place without the same powers as the rest of his class. When everyone could see exactly which strings had been pulled, to get him in. Reyes remembers what Ryder said about the N7 armor, about having to earn it.

“I don’t know that much about implants,” Reyes lies, “but I’ve heard the name Ellen Ryder. What was she like, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Ryder doesn’t mind - whatever minefield his father might be, this is the right question. Reyes can see him soften, Ryder lights up, talking about his mother and her research with an honest fondness in his voice. It’s easy from there, to navigate the conversation through all kinds of unthreatening history - Sara and Scott and a charmed life on the Citadel, her research missions and his time with the Alliance, on Arcturus.

“Arcturus wasn’t… great. Boring, mostly. The turians stuck there all hated it too, we used to run skirmishes in our free time, way more dangerous than anything that happened on station. It was a cushy desk job for the rich kid, I got that, I did - but by then, mom was pretty sick and… she needed us to be safe, me and Sara. It was the only thing we could really do for her, to just be happy and okay. Close to a relay, for when things got bad.” Ryder sighs. “I guess it didn’t really prepare me for all this, but the final exam in Pathfinder School was a rock to the faceplate, so…“

He offers up the bottle, the last inch of alcohol in the bottom. Reyes accepts, the glass warm where the Pathfinder’s hand had been.

“What about you?” Ryder asks. “Did you always want to be a pilot?”

Reyes had been twelve, and he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near the cockpit, but half the ship was on fire while the rest had been shaking itself apart. The last person who could have said anything about it had been bleeding out on the floor at his feet, the job having gone so very far past the worst that could be expected. He’d been twelve, and certain he’d be spaced in the next heartbeat for what seemed like a lifetime. He’d managed to get the ship moving, dodge his pursuers, to put out the fires and hide the small craft in the shadow of an asteroid. He’d had to surrender a few hours later, before he’d run out of air - but the captain hadn’t shot him on sight - impressed by his skills, by his survival, and Reyes could hardly have any reason to stay loyal to a dead man. It was the first time he’d switched sides, far from the last, abandoning one cause for another and learning how little difference it usually made.

“Yes, I think I did.” Reyes says. “You know what it's like - pure freedom. If the ship is yours, the universe is yours. Even when you’re working for someone else, it can provide a certain… perspective.”

Reyes docks his personal craft in what counts as a quiet, well-protected corner of Kadara’s ports - it’s small and not much to look at, but it does what he needs it to do and it’s his. A quiet place to go, an exit strategy to have in the back of his mind, fueled and ready - he’s always mobile, he can always cut his losses. He’s good at flying, it’s fun to go fast and not die and the fraternity of fellow pilots is a motley, agreeable place to be in any sector of the galaxy.

Ryder asks him a few more questions - nothing pointed, just conversation - and Reyes has a series of pleasant answers and funny anecdotes in response, a mix of the borrowed and the mostly true. He tends to make himself a bit player in most stories, just along for the ride, never worth a closer inspection.

He’s actually having a good time here on this hill in the badlands, not just pretending to - and not just by the lowered standards of Kadara, or because there’s a payout waiting at the end. The more time he spends with Scott Ryder, the more things he finds to like. The more this job goes from attainable to agreeable, and he wants to take his time. 

“… I mean, I _found_ a path.” Ryder sighs, saluting the last of the retreating Eirochs with the empty bottle. “It didn’t go where it was supposed to, but I still found it. Obviously, somebody needs to be more specific. Next time I could be the ‘Galaxy _Not_ Covered in Kett’ Finder. The Beachfinder. The ‘Luxury Hotel with All-Inclusive Drinks Service’ finder.” He sighs, and drops back, until he’s laying down, looking up at the sky. “You sure your friends are coming?”

Reyes may have suggested they take the long way around. He stays where he is, just to keep watch, even though the night has grown quiet again, even the fires finally dying down. It provides a rather pleasant perspective, looking down on the Pathfinder as he stares up into the stars.

“Jaal’s been trying to teach me some of the names, but they’re never about just one angara.” Ryder says, flexing his hand as if he could gather a few bright lights for his own. “Even their mythology is a team sport.” He looks younger in the dim light, and still excited to be here despite it all.

“You really do believe in it, don’t you? The Initiative. All of this.”

Reyes has grown up around aliens, or as the alien, all of his life, but it’s never meant anything more, just the status quo - nothing aspirational about it. It’s interesting to think it can be otherwise, to catch even a small glimpse of how the Pathfinder must see the world.

“No, I…” Ryder frowns. “I mean, maybe. I want to. You heard about Earth, right? What it was like, before. Everything was overcrowded, everywhere was coming apart. Melting glaciers, shrinking forests - the Great Barrier Reef was almost gone. Then we had First Contact, and that was… well… but then the Asari showed up, and everything got better. They just… helped us fix things, because we were there. Because it was easy for them to do it. I think it was a salaraian that fixed the reef. He didn’t need to, but there was something similar where he’d come from and he could pass the information along. We could share so much. It’s amazing, everything that we learned because we met the Turians, the Asari - everyone. We’re all better when we’re working together. I think the Angara will feel that way, too.”

“Who do you miss the most?”

The Quarians have his vote. Reyes can’t imagine what possessed the Initiative not to have the galaxy’s finest seat-of-their-pants engineers as key players in the advance fleet. Probably the same braintrust that gathered all the Nexus higher-ups into one, easily disposable location. He’s wondered, now and then, if there wasn’t something more nefarious to it all, but no one really made a move in the aftermath, and he couldn’t imagine the benefit to making things more broken in a hostile, unknown system. Sometimes, the incompetence is so stunningly comprehensive it's a comfort to imagine an evil intent.

“Oh man, the Elcor. The _kids_.” Ryder laughs. “You ever seen a baby elcor? It’s like an entire sector of the galaxy had a surplus of cute and nothing else to do with it.” He sighs. “I miss everyone. I miss the Citadel. I mean, there are still asari back home who remember us, right? I’d love to see them swoop in and take the Kett down a peg or nine.”

Umi is certain her sister is there - a celebrated matriarch kicking back by a beacon in the Milky Way, just waiting to for the opportunity to say ‘I told you so.’

“I am detecting approaching vehicles, Pathfinder.” SAM says, as Ryder sits up. “They do not read as hostile.”

Depending on your definition. It’s Vetra Nyx in the driver’s seat of the first vehicle, flanked by the krogan and the asari - biotic powers to carry anything she wants that the krogan can’t lift. Reyes recalculates the odds of taking anything away from this job that she doesn’t deign to give him.

“I really shouldn’t say it… but maybe we can do this again sometime?” Ryder says.

“Count on it.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Looks like that went well.”

Kian is carefully cleaning one of his mismatched glasses - fastidious, even here in his shithole bar underneath the shithole bar. It’s one of the things that Reyes liked about him first, that professional attention to detail, that sign of pride. The bar is empty, all the dancers and drunks off to wherever they go when Tartarus is out of alcohol. The supply lines are still not quite one-hundred percent down in the slums, Sloane getting a lucky break, putting her boot in because it’s the only thing she ever does. Reyes will have it sorted by tomorrow - earlier, if he wants to devote the night to whys and hows. He’s been slacking, but it should be easier to bring his attention back to Kadara Port, now that the Pathfinder has set his sights on Elaadan. 

“How else would it go?” Reyes says, receiving that perfect, noncommittal bartender smile in return. He doesn’t trust everyone he can’t charm, but it’s not a bad place to start.

“What’s he like, then?”

“The Pathfinder is a very nice boy.” Reyes says. “They grew him at the Citadel, and polished him up in the Alliance. What else would he be?”

It’s not as bad as all that. Ryder wasn’t some tone-deaf Initiative puppet, or interested in pushing a personal agenda on the rest of the universe. He’s egalitarian, which is not a word that gets much use in Reyes’ world, and Reyes is glad to find he has no real desire to knock the Pathfinder down into the dirt and the muck. Ryder is a little bit naive and a little bit sheltered and… innocent, which is a word that _never_ gets used in his world - but the Pathfinder’s the better for it. All of Andromeda is likely to be better for it.

“I mean what’s he like in the sack?” Kian says. “Is he a cuddler? I bet he’s a cuddler.”

“I really wouldn’t know.” Reyes says, and grins when the bartender lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “What? I’m a gentleman.”

Kian raises the other eyebrow.

“He needs to be the one to come to me, if he’s interested." Reyes says. "It’ll be better if it’s his idea.”

SAM will be an interesting complication to that plan, and every other plan. Before the Tempest had landed, Reyes had half a mind to install a few recording devices on the ship, or at least try - but there’s no point now. He’ll need to rethink any scenario that might catch even a few stray bytes of the AI’s attention. SAM had been quiet on the public channels for the rest of the time Reyes had been at the Pathfinder’s side. No further questions, but he doubts that meant they were finished. If the AI really is inseparable from Ryder… well, Reyes will just have to do his best to charm them both.

“So, what now?”

It’s decoy conversation. Reyes rarely lays out a plan in full, and never in public - and yes, a dark and empty bar on purportedly friendly territory still counts. It’s just easier to assume the audience is always listening. He shrugs, smiling.

“Who knows? I guess we wait to see who makes the next move.” 

——————————————

The Collective makes the next move, of course, and a few after that. Might as well play while the table is hot, keep the pressure on and see what else feels like crumbling.

Friendly discussions take place at the wind farm, over stability and prosperity and my goodness, the Pathfinder certainly was helpful, wasn’t he? A bit goofy, a bit Initiative - but he didn’t ask for much for all he’d offered, even if the Outcasts had dropped by afterward to shake their heads and make vague threats. The Collective, of course, was very impressed with all their efforts in generating power while not dying horribly, and would be interested in a… more detailed discussion of common goals and benefits, as the situation progressed.

No, of course that didn’t mean confronting Sloane directly. The Collective would handle that. The Collective always handles the most unpleasant parts. It makes people much more likely to agree to the rest.

An offer is quietly extended to Charybdis Point, to expand into recently vacated roekaar hideout - more space and more security, plus the implication of nominal armed protection for a reasonable price. The suggestion that the Pathfinder, involved with acquiring the space, might also be interested in its upkeep, even feel some responsibility for the people who come to inhabit it. 

It’s no surprise that the hideout quickly picks up a name of its own - Amnesty - and the rumor spreads that getting on the list there, being on your best behavior is one step closer to returning to the Nexus, getting back on the side of full rations and clean underwear. 

Reyes doesn’t think Sloane notices, or that she’s seen the Pathfinder as anything but a direct threat - possibly not even that. Ryder doesn’t challenge in the way she’s used to, that she might even recognize as a danger. He doesn’t push or threaten, barely even stands his ground, patiently waiting for other people to show him who they are and - if they’re difficult - how they might be managed. The Pathfinder stays placid and agreeable, lets people think they’ve won the argument and then does whatever the hell he wants anyway. 

He’d been handing out supplies from the Tempest’s own stores all throughout his time in the Port, to anyone who claimed a need. Reyes knows the Pathfinder personally paid up the protection fees for at least half a dozen people, and has already vetted a first batch of names for resettlement on Prodromos. Is Tann any better than Sloane, at seeing the Pathfinder for what he is? Unlikely.

For his part, Reyes makes sure that the Collective takes all the credit for sneaking Terev off-planet, for wresting control of Oblivion away from the Outcasts and anything else it would be better for Ryder not to have on his increasingly diverse resume. A few fires, a bit of cleanup, and there’s no one left to say otherwise.

A fine partnership, especially since the Pathfinder doesn’t know he’s involved.

—————————————

Scott Ryder’s unbroken string of miraculous victories crash into Elaadan with all the grace and glory of a pyjak in a barbecue pit. Reyes might have warned him, that the mostly hostile krogan defectors were the best it had to offer, the entire planet a sandbox full of broken glass and rusty nails upended into the sun. Elaadan made Kadara Port look like the Citadel.

The krogan aren’t inclined to negotiate, need nothing that the Nexus can offer that they didn’t take when they left, and the Pathfinder’s particular blend of reserve and humility will do nothing to impress them, not brash enough by half. The fact that he’s got Nakmor Drack with him is likely all that keeps them from being fed to the giant Revenant worm. No good news for the Pathfinder - which is excellent news for Reyes, and will only improve Kadara by comparison. He has eyes on Elaadan, though the reports are slower and sparser than he’d prefer - something had spooked the Tempest, sent them racing off-planet, and Reyes would certainly like to know what it was.

New Tuchanka is poised to be the very first luxury market in Andromeda, and he has already made a few tentative gestures into figuring out what they want, what they need, and what he might be able to sell to them anyway. It’s been a bit difficult to set up much trade, with how hostile they are to outsiders, and though Keema’s connections to Paradise are solid there’s not enough infrastructure yet to do much more than grab up Remnant scraps at discount prices. 

If not for his string of successes, Reyes would put the Pathfinder’s chances of getting an Initiative settlement on Elaadan in the negative numbers. But even as the dates go by for Aya, for Voeld, the time between the Tempest landing and every other vault going live passing with no sign of success, Reyes is patient. Confident the Pathfinder will succeed in saving the planet, mending the worst of the troubles between the krogan and the Initiative, and securing the Collective a very lucrative foothold on the planet that had once been considered a literal golden world.

Reyes smuggles, because he’s a smuggler. Shena continues sending bits and pieces of information to the Resistance, mostly about the Pathfinder - Jaal Ama Darav is on the Tempest, practically Ryder’s right hand, and with four planets worth of evidence that the Initiative is not here for the same reasons as the kett, they’re still nervous. Reyes knows that Efvra cross-checks his reports with Keema, though they can barely get along even on opposite ends of Andromeda. Of course the angara are suspicious - the Pathfinder still seems too good to be true. If Reyes weren’t a lying bastard surrounded by lying bastards, he might still have his doubts, but he knows what that looks like, especially when it’s trying to hide, and it isn’t Scott Ryder.

The Charlatan cultivates new connections on Voeld, on Aya, on the Nexus - and the Hyperion. Finally, he gets his hands on the list of names of everyone who’d arrived in those pods - and finds a few worth a closer look, men and women who really ought to have chosen a different alias if they wanted to come here and set up shop, who should have slummed it on the advance team if they’d wanted to stake their claim on Andromeda first. 

He gathers up the worst of those names - just a concerned citizen, doing his civic duty - and passes the information to CMO Brecka on the Nexus. Why take the risk of awakening a criminal, especially in light of the Uprising? Why deal with the burden, when there are so many others with spotless records who are ready to go? It’s certainly easier just to leave them in stasis, until the end, until the situation is more stable and an actual investigation can occur.

Reyes doesn’t know the man personally, but Brecka must be as tired and overworked and frustrated as everyone else in the Initiative not fortunate enough to be exiled. It might make him open to a few more… active suggestions in the months to come. He might be willing to look the other way, if some of those pods never open at all, a few tragic casualties that will never have the chance to become a problem. It might happen, it might not, and so Reyes does what he can to plan for the possibilities, and keep an ear out for opportunities, and keep at least part of his attention always fixed on Elaadan.

—————————————

It rains on Kadara Port.

Generally, the weather beneath the cliffs varies between sticky and unpleasant or unpleasant and unpleasant. The winds in the port occasionally stir up the stolid air, but with an acrid stench that proves useless as a cure. The rains have never been a blessing - acidic, although not as immediately deadly as the pools that collect in the badlands. Still, the drops sting a bit against bare skin, and anything left out for long - metal, plastic, organic - is inevitably eaten away by the weather. Dark clouds overhead will always see the shops shutting up tight, inhabitants darting for cover.

Except it’s been some time now, since the Pathfinder reactivated the Vault, and Reyes has had his people taking measurements by the day, and though no one’s yet daring to drink the water straight, Reyes knows that the purifiers are working only half as hard as usual - and there’s no bite to what they do provide, not how there used to be even at the best of times. He’s walked out from the few climate-controlled rooms in the Port and been hit less often by the familiar wave of sulfur, now only an edge on the wind, and sometimes not even that.

Kadara Port is home to the exiled of the Nexus, to the desperate and the angry and the scared, and apart from those poor bastards who hadn’t survived the first round on Eos, no one has had to do more with less for longer, with no assurance of accomplishing more than an ugly struggle to a brutal end. The angara on Kadara haven’t had it much better, seen as weak and cowardly in the eyes of the Resistance, though they’ve fought the kett on this inhospitable place as hard as anyone, were the first to work with and endure a second group of intruders while the rest of the their people hid on Aya, watching and waiting.

So it means more here than anywhere else, when a sudden gust of wind sweeps across the port, the air cool and crisp and clean, the first hint of an autumn season that has never existed before. The clouds follow, and the port closes up as always, Reyes retreating to the Song to continue poring through his never-ending flood of new messages, problems and reports, though frustratingly little from Elaadan. The rain comes hard and fast and as heavy as he’s ever heard it, thudding down on the roof of the bar. It will make a misery of everything below, Kian no doubt already scrambling to shore up the makeshift drainage in place around Tartarus. It might be better if he sleeps in his ship for at least a few days.

It’s not the rarest thing, to hear a commotion on the docks, although if Sloane’s not making an example of someone she usually tries to keep the worst chaos in check. The Port still has to be a favorable alternative to the Badlands, after all. 

At first, Reyes thinks there must have been an accident, someone moving too fast to try and get out of the rain - but then there’s more and more of an uproar, enough to keep Umi’s door open even as she glares daggers - and brandishes them - from behind the bar. He’s curious, he’s always curious, and so Reyes pushes himself up near the front, a gust of rain-scented wind almost as refreshing as the scene before him. 

A young exile - half-shaved head and dubious tattoos - strips herself out of her armor with delighted abandon, head tipped back to the sky as she lets out a whoop of joy. An angara pushes himself past Reyes, rushing out to her, to try and bring her under shelter but she stops him, gesturing wildly toward the clouds, laughing. Kissing him, before spinning like a child, arms outstretched under the still-pouring rain.

Reyes reaches out, lets the drops gather in his palm for a moment before tipping his hand, watching them roll across his heart line and away - and it doesn’t burn or sting. Only rain, nothing more.

He’s not stupid enough to go out in it without a second opinion, and by the time Reyes has confirmed it with Draulir, the celebration is well underway. The water’s cleaner than most of what fell in the cities on Earth - it’s drinkable, without being treated. 

It’s Rainfall, and from now on it will be an annual holiday because they need an annual holiday, and no one will ever forget where they were for the first.

A party and an orgy and a spontaneous religious experience, wilder and more all-consuming than anything Reyes has ever seen, even on worlds set up for the purpose. The shops open up, everything opens up, music playing from all corners of the docks - human, asari, angaran - speakers blaring and people on instruments and drums and anything that can become a drum, a common beat melding together into one unstoppable force. The Charlatan puts the word out - all actions temporarily suspended on the Port - because it’s easier than admitting no one would listen to him anyway. Collective operatives and Outcast enforcers are probably making out in the streets - everyone else is. 

Everyone dances, everyone drinks and laughs and yells to the sky and Reyes nearly takes a slice of paripo fruit in the eye, the melons absurdly expensive but being sliced and passed around now as if it’s angaran Christmas and there’s plenty to share. The rain buckets down until they’re all soaked through and someone’s repurposed some panels that are already halfway to being a pool in the middle of the Port, filled from some cistern when the rain isn’t letting them get to the fun fast enough, water that can now be replaced.

Reyes glances up, surveying the crowd - and there on a platform at the edge of the revelry is Sloane Kelly and her turian second, surveying the crowds with an unreadable expression. He wonders what she’s thinking, If she can feel it, the tipping point, that even if she manages to defeat the Collective, this planet doesn’t need her like it used to. No one notices that she’s there, and only Reyes watches her depart.

As if on cue, brilliant light spears down through the clouds, the sudden sun-shower illuminating the entire Port in golden haze and glittering jewels, the revelers cheering it like and old friend as the music continues to bouncing and echoing across the cliffs and they can probably hear it down in the Badlands, they might even be celebrating too. 

Reyes wanders from one end of the port to another, watching the festivities, chronicling what feels like it ought to be chronicled, the kind of thing they’d all come to Andromeda to see. He drinks, and he dances, and he cheers when everyone else cheers, whatever they’re cheering, lets himself be caught up in the infectious happiness, in the relief of it all. The rain stops as night begins to fall but the wind is still sweet and the party goes on, and on and on. Reyes finally ends up stumbling into bed with… well, whoever he is, he does bear enough resemblance to Scott Ryder to make Keema smirk when she knocks on his door in the morning.

It seems a shame that the Pathfinder had been the one to bring them such a celebration, and he’s still beating his head against the wall that is Elaadan. Things are going as well with the krogan as Reyes knew they would, Ryder apparently swallowed up by some vast Remnant wreck full of scavengers for vaguely ominous reasons, current status unknown.

Reyes hasn’t reached out beyond a single cursory, vaguely flirtatious message - no reason for a smuggler to go out of his way for the Pathfinder, even if they did get along, but he does want more information than he’s getting from his own people on Elaadan and it might raise Ryder’s spirits to know that he’s brought some good, even to a pile of exiles. A reminder that he has a friend on Kadara, and as insane as it sounds, the Port might be considered a kind of haven. At least compared with New Tuchanka.

So he flicks his way through the images he gathered, picks the best of them and sends the Pathfinder what he hopes will be a note of encouragement - _Wish You Were Here_.

It’s less than twelve hours when Reyes receives a reply - shot after shot after shot of what he thinks at first is just a repeating image, but no, it’s a panorama of all the identical dunes of Elaadan. Vacation photos from the most boring circle of hell - scoured ground and scoured skies and, in one slightly more memorable image, the asari on the Pathfinder's team poking gingerly at a carcass that might be unidentifiable, even at close range. 

He grins at the subject line: _So Do I_


	7. Chapter 7

It turns out that all the careful planning, subterfuge, and surveillance across several worlds isn’t nearly as effective as just _asking_ the Pathfinder how things are going.

It’s not quite that easy, of course. Ryder isn’t about to offer up all the Initiative’s secrets for a wink and a smile, but it’s still an inside look for very little effort on Reyes’ part. If nothing else, he might be able to keep an eye on the Pathfinder when he vanishes off all other maps.

The messages come at scattered intervals, but with increasing frequency, until he can count on some response from Ryder nearly every other day, tracking how busy he is or how things are going on Elaaden by the gaps between comments. It’s mostly light banter, all still on the same tag line - “Wish You Were Here” - interspersed with pictures of the stars, of ruins on Elaaden, and the occasional interesting occurrence from the Port. Reyes mentions that he’s seen activity near Charybdis Point, mentions “Amnesty” - and the Pathfinder is all in, because of course he is.

A few common points of history between the two of them, believe it or not. The Pathfinder is Alliance through and through, and though Reyes may not be, he did spend the minimal amount of time in their ranks to enjoy three meals a day and learn his way around a few different types of ships. Getting paid to fly - and to figure out how the Alliance tended to move their cargo, the best ways of hitting them for high profit and minimal fuss. He knows enough of the terminology, that he can laugh in all the right places during Ryder’s stories, can commiserate on the bureaucracy, all the rules and regulations. Scott seems surprisingly understanding that Reyes had moved on rather quickly to more profitable ends.

 _Anubis weighed the hearts of the dead, didn’t he?_ Ryder writes, because of course there would have been information on Reyes Vidal, even without SAM there to provide any more incriminating details. It doesn’t seem like the AI’s mentioned anything to Ryder about Omega yet, or anything else he might have uncovered. Reyes could worry about that, but if SAM finds him interesting, it probably won’t be so quick to scare him away. 

_A soul against a feather._ Reyes writes back. _Most importantly, it looked very impressive on the side of my ship._

Ryder asks him about his time on the Nexus, what it was like during the Uprising. The sort of thing Reyes doubts any of his crew who were there are all that interested in rehashing. He sketches out a slightly more unexpected version of events than his own personal experience - he’d seen the warning signs, and like anyone who was Terminus-born, Reyes hadn’t spent any time being shocked at how fast things fell apart, not when there was cargo that needed to be ‘relocated’ with him. The benefits of a shitty upbringing weren’t always immediately apparent, but as Reyes has grown older he’s come to appreciate it. 

He sends Ryder a picture of his personal, hydroponic pepper plant - perhaps the only one in all of Heleus - and certainly the best heist he’s ever bothered with, for how it renders even nutrient paste almost palatable. It is a necessity, in Andromeda, to make friends with anyone who has any kind of spices. Ryder promises that Vetra will start sourcing possible sources for chips, and who knows, in two or three years they might even have something resembling a decent plate of nachos.

 _We need to raise your standards, Pathfinder._ Reyes writes. _I’m sure Nyx could manage a mediocre_ sopaipillas con pebre _at the very least._

 _A what?_

Reyes explains in more than the necessary detail - he misses them too - and chuckles at the instantaneous grumpy reply.

 _Vidal, why would you tell me about a_ new _delicious thing I can’t have?!_

The next two-dozen messages are all an ode to all the foods they loved and left behind. Reyes takes some notes, anything he might be able to offer the Pathfinder on a shorter timeline than waiting for half the ingredients to grow and the others to age.

He learns more about Ryder, pays close attention to even the smallest asides. The Pathfinder on the radio is concerned with keeping up appearances, while the one out in the field has his own opinions about how things should run. 

Whatever the Initiative and Ark Hyperion had been hoping for with their human Pathfinder, shaping a different balance of power in Andromeda from how things had been on the Citadel, Reyes doubts this is what they had in mind. The Pathfinder supports Kesh with an unflinching allegiance, and is nothing but relieved to have an asari as their official diplomat on Aya. He doesn’t actively speak out against Tann or Addison, even in his private messages, but the polite deflections and tacit silences say enough.

Ryder also has more than a little crush on Tiran Kandros - which isn’t surprising, the security officer single-handedly responsible for most of the morale left on the Nexus. Reyes pushes a little, and it seems the Pathfinder has a thing for turian men in general - waving it away with a few self-deprecating remarks on soldiers and rule-following - and it’s a damn shame that most of the turians in Kadara came in with the Outcasts. Caelum is many things, but date night material really isn’t one of them.

He knows Ryder’s spoken with Sloane’s turian, Kaetus, at least briefly, that the Pathfinder is still determined to be a neutral party in Kadara. Not that it should really matter, something as stupid as who might turn a man’s head - but wars have been lost and won for less. Reyes has seen men and women he thought were smart make lethal mistakes arguing over asari dancing girls. The Pathfinder is young, but he doesn’t seem to be that kind of ridiculous, and Kaetus isn’t much of a flirt, either way. Still, it’s something to keep an eye on, if Ryder decides that Reyes is not quite charming enough.

“What does Aroane have that we want?” Reyes asks one day, scanning through blocks of data from a little hidey-hole in the Badlands that definitely doesn’t exist, packed to the gills with transmitters the Nexus never noticed went missing.

“Enough.” Derc says. “Why?”

“The Pathfinder wants to know if I’ve heard of him.” Reyes says. “I think the krogan have decided it’s time to square up with William Spender.”

Derc looks - well, Salarians don’t always smile, but his amusement is easy enough to read. “I suppose that would explain why he’s been poking us, asking to speak with the Charlatan. Or why he’s pretending to _be_ the Charlatan, out on Elaaden.”

“He finally worked up the nerve?” Reyes chuckles. There is something that can be truly transcendent, in a man’s last gasp of desperation. Especially when that man thinks he’s clever. Watching Spender work was a bit like looking at himself through a cracked, spotty mirror - nimble enough to cover his own ass, but utterly without charm or seemingly any higher purpose. An indiscriminate amount of damage had been left in Spender’s wake, to no greater ambition than keeping himself out of the crosshairs.

“Does the Charlatan want to take care of it?” Derc asks. He’s been one of the inner circle from the start, Gartan introducing his younger brother as someone who could make things happen. Whatever allegiance they’d had in the Collective to begin with, it had been cemented by Gartan’s death - Operative Lacerta a martyr for the Charlatan when the idea had been little more than vague ambition. 

It’s a little annoying, that the name’s already been dragged off-planet. Reyes had been trying to keep it quiet, not to make a grand debut until his victory on Kadara. Maybe spend a little more time invisible in the chaos, before too many better-funded eyes were turned his way. Reyes doesn’t worry, that his own name is attached to some of Aroane’s dealings, and quite a few other illicit activities around Kadara. Ryder would only be more suspicious if his notorious smuggler contact seemed too clean.

“No.” He says. “The Pathfinder has him now, and I’m not going to be the one to deprive the krogan of their sport. Keep an eye on Aroane’s network - I’m sure we’ll know when to step in.”

———————————————

Aroane goes down. Spender follows right behind. Exiled, in a nice bit of karma, or whatever it is the krogan call it - turnabout and fair play with high-impact rounds.

In unrelated news, Reyes gets shot. 

It has happened before, although less often since he’d reached Andromeda. Unfortunately, establishing himself as a mysterious force to be reckoned with is still a work in progress. Reyes has always been his own best asset - the only person he can ever really trust - and there are many times when it’s just expedient to use himself with a bit of callous disregard. 

It’s also important not to let himself get too above it all - leaders who lose sight of the day-to-day can miss the little warning signs, or think themselves above the bigger ones. A dealer doesn’t get high on their own supply, and a Charlatan can’t believe his own hype.

So it’s good, being humbled. Painful lessons are the ones that get remembered and Reyes will not be forgetting this one anytime soon, feeling the blood dripping freely from his shoulder, across his chest, down his arm, sticky and hot. He lets irritation dull the pain, since little else does - it was his own stupid decision to end up in a galaxy on the other side of the universe from where most of the medi-gel lives. What he does have on him is better than the usual watered-down shit that most of Kadara is making due with, but it isn’t enough to do more than keep him upright and moving.

A stupid injury, when it really was just a smuggling job, the kind that usually went so well, and as far as he could tell his attackers were only anonymous raiders swooping down at random. They’d probably spent their last two credits on the armor-piercing rounds that had torn through him. When they saw they’d drawn blood, it made them cocky, charging into the undergrowth to finish him off. Their mistake.

The man at his feet lets out pained, soft wheezing sounds, hands twitching uselessly near the hole in his gut. It’ll take him hours to die, if nothing else finds him first, and Reyes can already hear the skitterings and crunchings of Kadara rising up in the silence, as if the whole planet knows when something’s vulnerable. 

“This is a waste of a bullet.” Reyes informs him, before putting him out of his misery. He takes a minute to check the bodies - his associate already very dead a few feet away - half-hoping to uncover any kind of sinister plot or even a double-dealing, anything remotely more impressive. No such luck, not even any spare ammunition, and his own cargo is busy burning itself up along with the transport he took to get here. Reyes slowly searches around - his attackers’ ride hidden in the brush, the sort of third-hand junk pile that might blow up if he dares to stare at it for too long.

It’s a good thing the Charlatan is everyone and no one, so Reyes isn’t ruining any reputations as he stumbles slowly through the badlands, back toward the slums, pausing only when his vision grays a little bit, his steps unsteady. It feels like there’s less blood sloshing around under his armor, the longer he keeps moving, but he also doesn’t think there’s an exit wound - or maybe he didn’t get shot twice, only the once, and the ricochet…

He’s paid up his bribes at the gate, so he won’t have to bother with any alternate routes, but one of the guards still smirks as he limps past, not used to seeing Reyes Vidal this far off his game. It’s useful, in its own way. Any man of secret wealth and means would have better things to do than bleed his way across Kadara’s undercarriage.

Reyes pauses to lean against a beam that’s been used as a quick bathroom for more than a few species in its recent history, grimacing at the stairs - so many goddamn stairs, more than he remembers - but he’s not getting through the Port like this, and his options there aren’t much better than the man he knows is still down here, stubbornly working out of a cargo crate. Still accepting patients from all corners, as if daring someone to protest.

“You need to get a better waiting room.”

A lucky break, that the good doctor is here so late - although it’s clear he doesn’t consider it a similar blessing. Nakamoto scowls even as he turns around, and Reyes watches his expression go in several different directions at once - annoyed, angry, concerned - before he sees what he was hoping for - a begrudging, professional resignation.

“You didn’t have anyone else you could call? Literally anyone else?”

Reyes _is_ technically on the Collective’s payroll - he’s technically on everyone’s payroll - and though there are a few people with medical training in Draulir, getting out there was even more of a hassle as getting here, and… and…

He stumbles, crashing shoulder-first into the wall, choking back the pain that jolts through him, feeling blood seeping out in some new direction, everything half-healed threatening to tear open again. Thankfully, Nakamoto’s ‘clinic’ is otherwise unoccupied, and when he limps over the threshold, the doors are quickly shut behind him. Reyes drags himself rather artlessly up onto the nearest table - unforgivingly hard, but he’s tired and it makes his leg stop complaining for the moment, so it’s all right.

“How long have you been like this?” The doctor says.

“All my life.” Reyes laughs, and then coughs, and then just tries to breathe as Nakamoto begins carefully removing his armor, surveying the damage. A few pieces are sticking, covered in blood, while others fall off on their own, in fragments. Reyes stares at them, and then at his bloody palms in confusion. When the hell did he get hit _that_ hard? “You know… doctor, you should consider joining up with the Collective. I hear they have actual walls.”

“If I officially became your doctor, I couldn’t shoot you when I really needed to.”

“Is that how it works?”

“No.” Nakamoto says. “The Hippocratic Oath never took you into account, or I’m sure they would have amended it.”

“S’okay.” Reyes says, the words slurring a little. That’s irritating. “… don’t believe in oaths.”

He hears the doctor curse distantly, as if from across the room. Reyes tastes blood - wait, are things getting worse? _It would be a doctor from Kadara, to make things worse._ He thinks, a little amused as everything goes dark.

————————————

Reyes wakes up to a persistent flash of light behind his closed lids, and pain in varying degrees, though most of it feels at least a little blunted - and he opens his eyes to see Dr. Nakamoto picking the last bits of shrapnel out of his chest with a long pair of tweezers. Reyes checks purely out of habit - his gun is still in the holster at his side.

“Thank you for being unconscious while I was dealing with the worst of it.” Nakamoto says without looking up. “You owe me half a case of medi-gel, by the way. Full strength.”

The flashing that had urged him awake is his omni-tool - an urgent message, and it isn’t for Reyes Vidal. 

He tries to adjust his position, just slightly, to see if he might be able to leave. The pain instantly blanks his vision white, the doctor arm the only thing that’s keeping him from rolling onto the floor. By the time Reyes can see again, he’s looking at fresh blood staining the front of Nakamoto’s clothes.

“You also owe me new scrubs. Stay where you are, or you’ll just keep bleeding on my stuff.” 

The omni-tool continues to blink, demanding a response. Reyes does not have the coordination to handle this through a private text. Nakamoto gives the wall a very pointed thousand-yard stare, and a pained sigh. 

“I didn’t survive this long by knowing what was going on.”

Reyes picks up the call. 

“Where have you _been_?” It’s Crux, from Draulir, sounding more annoyed than frantic. At least there doesn’t seem to be the sound of active shooting behind her, so it’s probably not a coup.

“In the slums. I was unexpectedly…. detained.” Reyes bites back a curse, as Nakamoto digs another piece of bullet or armor or Kadara out of his skin. He’s really hoping, the way that most of them have been hoping, that the full-spectrum antibacterial properties of medigel still apply in Andromeda. “What’s happened?”

“A report came in from Elaaden, they contacted us when they couldn’t find you - the Pathfinder’s been shot.”

Nakamoto looks up at that, with the same expression of dread that would be on anyone’s face. Love the Pathfinder or hate him, it’s certainly better to have Ryder out there, taking hits so the rest of them don’t have to.

“Shit.” Reyes says. “How bad? Is he dead?”

“Conflicting reports, nothing but rumors at the moment. That ship of his swooped in - he’s off-planet now. No official word from the Nexus yet, if they even know.”

Reyes scoffs. “Like Tann would ever announce that.” He’d keep the Pathfinder out on secret missions indefinitely, before ever revealing that he’d managed to lose him. “Do you know anything else? How did it happen?”

“You remember the Flophouse?” 

“I need a shower just thinking about that place.” Reyes is injured, it takes him a minute to catch up. “… he took it out? _All_ of it?”

“The big Remnant derelict? It seems there was a story that some krogan were poking around in there for the biggest bomb in Andromeda - they wanted to use it to blow up the Nexus, and the scavengers were storing it for them. Or beat them to it. Either way, The Pathfinder didn’t seem to like that very much.”

Yes, that was exactly the sort of thing to get the Tempest moving, to inspire all of Ryder’s protective, heroic instincts. Reyes can’t help but wonder if this rumored weapon didn’t end up in the most troublesome nest of scavengers _because_ the Pathfinder would have to plow through them to recover it. 

“What about the ship? Are they excavating?” Might as well, if Ryder was nice enough to crack open the front door.

“Two crews on their way as we speak, and one more to cover them. Scavengers got in a bit through the cracks, but it’s still going to be a good haul.”

“I want any news on the Pathfinder, the minute we know.” Reyes says. “I’ll be in touch.” 

The conversation isn’t entirely damning - there have to be any number of people on Kadara keeping tabs on the Pathfinder for their own self-interest. Except Nakamoto already had his suspicions, and is very specifically not looking at him now, sterilizing his equipment on the other side of the narrow space.

“He could get you off planet, if you asked.” Reyes says. If the Pathfinder isn’t dead. He refuses to consider that without further information. There are plans, of course there are plans, if Ryder should suddenly take himself out of the picture, but they aren’t anything like Reyes’ favorite plans.

“If I leave here, these people have nothing. You know that.” Nakamoto says. After a moment, he sets down the tool he’s been fiddling with, his voice very low. “… can you deal with Sloane without tearing the Port apart?”

“It’s the entire point of the enterprise.” Reyes says. “Or has the Collective been bothering you about Oblivion lately?”

It’s not the worst thing, to bring the doctor into his confidence - the fact that he isn’t bleeding out now is proof of that. Twice betrayed, by the Initiative and then by Sloane - this is who Nakamoto is, when everything else has come and gone. Doctors, priests and bartenders - Reyes has tried to keep a hands-off policy, as long as they stick to their own affairs, and Nakamoto has been nothing if not discreet.

Reyes lies back, looking at the ceiling - freshly painted, or as fresh as anything down here can be. The Pathfinder… how badly had he been hurt? The Tempest was certainly stocked with every life-saving measure the Initiative had to offer, if they’d gotten him there in time. The Flophouse made a name for itself for a reason, though. God, and he’d thought Scott was smart, not the sort to go off half-cocked to play hero… but he wouldn’t have, if it had been anything less than the Nexus’ future hanging in the balance.

Well, Reyes has one avenue remaining if he’s that desperate for answers. A long shot, but what wasn’t in Andromeda? 

He gets a decent enough reflection from the back of what’s either a bedpan or just a pot to catch whatever leaks down here, and does a little bit of work to make his hair less ‘mangled pyjak’ and bit more ‘rakishly disheveled’. He poses, reconsiders the angle, and somewhere around this time Nakamoto’s realized some of what he’s up to, and makes a noise of infinite pain. Reyes grins, ignores him, carefully raises his omnitool and takes the picture.

_“Wish You Were Here”_

“I’d just like to help people, and not get murdered.” Nakamoto says, as Reyes leans back. Even that little movement was more of an effort than it should have been, and it’s probably better not to make any more for a while.

“I think that’s an excellent plan. Kadara is certainly in need of men with your expertise. The Charlatan understands that.”

Nakamoto has several unique sour expressions, and Reyes thinks he’s seeing all of them tonight. “You’re going to shoot me when I try to leave, aren’t you.” 

Reyes smiles. “Do you want me to turn around until you’re gone?”

The doctor sighs. “I’ll lock the door behind me. It’s secure enough. You should probably stay here until morning, unless you’ve… I don’t know… got people?”

“It’ll be fine.” Reyes says. The Collective’s made their position on Nakamoto’s clinic abundantly clear, and Reyes is just a smuggler - and it hurts more now that the adrenaline’s gone, sharp fangs gnawing away at him under the receding balm of the medigel.

“Good night, doctor. See you around.”

“Don’t say it like that!” Nakamoto snaps, and the door creaks closed and Reyes is left in the dim-half light. Too restless and aching to sleep, too difficult to move and continue rummaging through his omnitool, and his thoughts keep drifting in the direction of the Pathfinder. It’s a strange coincidence, isn’t it, both of them laid flat on separate planets? As long as Ryder’s still alive, that is. It would be a damn shame to lose him now, after all the work -

His omnitool beeps.

_Another Beautiful Day In Andromeda._

Ryder has taken his own picture from nearly the same angle, reclining in a medical bed on the Tempest, wearing… 

Reyes blinks, staring.

“Oh baby, no.” The Blasto tank top is stretched out, distressingly well-loved. Possibly even non-ironically. “ _That’s_ what you brought halfway across the universe?” 

It’s proof of life, though. The Pathfinder is still breathing, with a full complement of limbs and grinning wearily as he throws a victory sign back at the camera. Reyes wishes he had a better view of the room - looking less like the medbay and more like the Pathfinder’s private quarters. He can see evidence of at least one bullet wound at Ryder’s shoulder, and ugly patches of half-healed bruising that speaks to meeting Elaaden head-on. He’s whip-thin from months of going full-tilt, Reyes finally getting a chance to appreciate a small glimpse of what’s under all that armor and - 

Reyes peers closer, zooming in on the picture. A half-obscured line of… numbers? A tattoo on the Pathfinder’s chest, and the pilot in him recognizes galactic coordinates immediately, though it takes Reyes a few moments of thinking and searching to pin it down - Arcturus? The place the Pathfinder had claimed was safe and dull and barely worth mentioning? Boring enough to have it tattooed over his heart? Oh, there was a story there. Now to figure out how to make the Pathfinder want to share it.

 _You know, we’re really very good at this._ Ryder sends.

 _Any one you can walk away from._ Reyes responds.

Of course he’s curious with what’s happening on Elaaden, and if there is a Revenant-shaped bomb in play that might be worth knowing about, but Reyes is also operating with a few less pints of blood than is recommended, and Ryder doesn’t know he’s any more than a simple smuggler with oddly-timed bad luck, with no reason to know or care much about anything on Elaaden that isn’t scrap. 

Reyes fires off a message to those who ought to know- _Pathfinder alive, in mostly one piece_ \- and looks at Ryder’s picture for a few more minutes, because he can. It’s the nicest thing he’s had to fall asleep to in quite some time.

———————————

He wakes up with a taste in his mouth like he’s been licking the floor of Tartarus, and Keema sitting quietly at his side, poking through his omnitool. The sharp moment of alarm comes and goes - he’s not functioning well enough to do anything with it - and Keema glances up only for a moment before returning to openly sifting through his secrets. She probably can’t break more than half the encryptions, though the angara are aggressively resourceful, by nature and circumstance.

Keema tsks. “ _Shena_ , If I betrayed you, I would lose out on my best source of free entertainment.” 

Reyes thinks he might trust her. He wonders if he’ll regret that someday.

“Is there any clean-up we need to handle?” She asks.

“Nothing in particular.” Reyes grimaces, gingerly trying to lift himself upright and still going nowhere. He’s hot, wobbly - feverish, oh damn it. The last thing he needs today is a convalescence.

“Should you be here?” 

They try to keep their distance from each other, in the day-to-day, just in case. It doesn’t do for the Outcasts’ angaran representative to be seen too often with the same disreputable faces.

“I’m on angaran business.” Keema says, always on angaran business when it suits her, or when she isn’t interested in explaining. Sloane has to give her some space - a slight against her could easily be seen as a slight against all angara. It’s been useful, on occasion. “You didn’t call anyone. No one knew anything was wrong, until Lynx tried to reach you.”

“I was fine.” Reyes deserves the glare, that’s fair. “I thought I was fine. I didn’t know I might be in trouble until I was already here, and then… I was here. It wasn’t worth the risk.”

He really didn’t think to call. Reyes is used to handling problems on his own, and it isn’t just Sloane who has to deal with the consequences of a changing world. At the end of the day, most of the Outcasts don’t have a much in the way of ideology. Tied together by a common background, a dislike of Tann’s incompetence and approval of Sloane’s strength, and the logic of sheer survival, of no better options. But now, everyone’s got the chance to step back and take stock, and while it might work to the Collective’s favor, Reyes has to remember that it might work against him as well, that everything he’s built here has been about mutual benefit, nothing truly binding.

Gartan’s brothers hadn’t blamed him for what happened, as far as he knew - but was he willing to risk his life, that things would stay that way, if they had the time to reconsider? That Crux wouldn’t decide she could do better on her own? Or Keema might choose to speak on her own behalf with the Pathfinder, until Reyes was nothing but an unnecessary middleman? It’s not like he’s the Charlatan, it’s not like anyone is. 

It sounds nicer through the translator than it does in angaran - the Collective. A group of like-minded individuals, united by ideology and working toward a common goal. Except the angara shouldn’t ever have to do that, shouldn’t have to cobble solutions out of the needs of desperate strangers, the smashed-together remnants of broken families. The angara ought to be too wide-ranging for a family to ever be broken. The word itself is a tragedy in their language, a threatening and feral sort of thing. Maybe it sounds similar to the Salarians, who also ought to be here in legion, supporting each other by the dozens, not ones and twos. Octans and Derc are both aggressively unsentimental, but they’ve still invested a considerable amount of Collective resources in searching for Ark Paarchero.

“Is this him, then?” Keema says, his omnitool displaying Ryder on his back, grinning up into the camera, and she flicks through the other images the Pathfinder has sent, chuckling at the series of him flipping off various bits of the countryside, or the creatures who inhabit it, or one with each hand. She’d caught on quickly, to many of the Milky Way’s preferred vulgar gestures. “He looks different from the other pictures I’ve seen - less stiff. I prefer these.”

“Inexperience looks good on him.” Reyes says. “You two should meet.” 

“Annea said he was different than she expected. That’s a rare compliment, coming from her. Finding out he took care of those scavengers might even remind her there are things to be grateful for.” Keema says. “Still, it’s hard to believe he’s done so much.”

“It helps to see him in action, to get the full effect.”

“You like him, don’t you?” Keema says. “I’ve never seen you like someone before.”

“I like everyone.” Reyes says. “I like winning, and he’s helping me win. How are things back home? Is Kadara cleaning up as well for you as it is for us?”

Keema is what the angaran consider to be a loner, which means Reyes can count her immediate family just shy of both hands. The angara who don’t live in the Port gather together in a string of smaller enclaves. Long hidden from the kett, and well outside where most of the exiled care to travel. Keema has always been vague about their numbers - it helps when she needs to intimidate Sloane, though Reyes has been invited for a visit. One of those things he’s saving for after they’ve taken the Port, after it becomes Keema’s to rule.

“We have hot springs now. Pools and waterfalls. We’ll build it into a spectacle to make even Aya envious.” One-upping Efvra is certainly a life goal, but Keema’s pleasure is genuine - public bathing is popular among the angara, though there haven’t been the resources to even attempt it in any proper scale on Kadara, until now.

A cool hand touches his brow, and Reyes startles. Keema frowns.

“Is this normal? You’re a different color, more red, and very warm.”

“Fever.” Reyes says. “The human body elevates its temperature, to burn out infection. You don’t have them?”

They’ve been working together for over half a year, and he’s barely seen her sweat, let alone bleed. Keema’s better than that.

“Our bioelectrics handle most of it. What should I do?” 

He waves her continued concern away.

“It’s not high enough to be dangerous, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Her hand falls away, she stands up, and Reyes figures she’s on her way out the door. He really should consider getting up, dragging himself to his ship, at least. A few more options in arms’ reach, there, comfort and real security… 

A colder touch against his skin. Keema’s found an ice pack in the doctor’s repurposed mini-freezer, wrapped it in a bit of cloth. Not exactly a space-age solution, but it feels nice - and even more than that, is that she thought to try at all. One of those moments that remind him of where he is and why he wanted to come, that it’s more rich and strange than just squabbling for power and profit. This alien, from a galaxy so far from his own, is treating him with more thoughtfulness now than his own mother ever managed to. 

This is why Reyes doesn’t get ill, it makes him irritatingly close to sentimental.

“Did you find what you needed on my omnitool, or would you like to take it with you?”

Keema sighs.

“Let someone know where you’re going next time.” She says. “I’ve already had to mourn at too many empty graves.”

Reyes is fluent in languages beyond what his translator can catch - desperation, betrayal, ambition. His survival has often depended on it. Does he mistrust Keema because he thinks she might still be lying - or that he doesn’t even know what the truth would look like? Is this kindness a language he never learned to speak? Is he being cautious now, or cowardly? It would be a stupid thing to have her betray him because he’d offended her, to be betrayed because he couldn’t bring himself to trust.

“You know, you really could have told me it was called a _rofjinn_.” Reyes says.

“Ah, so Jaal finally tipped you off?” Keema smirks. “In your defense, you did say it was a lovely tablecloth.”

The cloth in question had been a gift, given to him a month or so after their first meeting, when they’d still been taking the measure of each other. Reyes had turned it into a wall hanging on his ship, and he really had come to treasure it, even though it took a year to notice that the Pathfinder’s angaran companion was wearing something that looked oddly familiar, that maybe it was more than a pretty piece of fabric.

“We don’t wear them much around here. They’re so… Aya.” Keema says, as explanation. “The one you have belonged to my cousin.”

“If you should ever want it back…”

“She was very much like you.” Keema says, ignoring him. “Always out in the world, always searching. So angry at the thought there might be something she didn’t know.”

It doesn’t take a Charlatan to guess what happened to her, so Reyes doesn’t ask.

“You shouldn’t stay here.” 

“But you haven’t woken up yet, and I’m worried about the cargo you’ve cost me, and how you’re going to pay me back. I’m looking out for my investments.” Keema smiles. “Rest, Vidal. I’ll wake you if you’re needed.”

It isn’t necessary for her to protect him, or watch over him, but Reyes also doesn’t have the strength to argue, and he probably wouldn’t win anyway. He has to pick his battles, when it comes to Keema. Who knows, maybe he won’t have to fight as many of those as he thought.

——————————

The Pathfinder heals fast and recovers the bomb that isn’t actually a bomb, more a tangle of bullshit and internal krogan politics - but at the end of it there’s the twin miracles of settling a new colony within spitting distance of New Tuchanka, and the Pathfinder unfucking Elaaden. 

There it is, the complete set. All the Golden Worlds with a Vault to their name, everything that can be turned around now pointed toward cooperation and prosperity.

Kadara is the only one left without an Initiative settlement to call its own. 

The rumors run wild. Reyes spreads some of them around himself. The Outcasts continue to shoot, and the Collective shoots back - but without Oblivion, the Outcasts are down one primary source of funds, and there’s already word from the Initiative colony at New Tuchanka - if you’ve got more brain cells rattling around your head than bullets in your gun, there’s steady work to be had, and safety, and maybe even a future. 

The Pathfinder’s policy of benign indifference is bearing fruit - be useful and mostly harmless, and no one will ask about how you got to the planet you’re on. Soon, the only Outcasts left are going to be the ones who would rather die than be anything else, which is going to make things very dangerous.

The Charlatan would like to remind the Collective of everything the Pathfinder has done to fix the still-improving planet, for buying all sorts of trinkets and snacks and heavy munitions from their stores and being a big, shining beacon of Initiative light that keeps the attention off of the rest of them. It is still in their best interest to keep an eye out for anyone who might want to do Ryder harm - although the stories of what’s left of the Flophouse have made most everyone think twice about crossing the Pathfinder anyway. He wasn’t supposed to survive Elaaden, let alone return to Kadara on a victory lap.

They’ve continued trading messages - a little more intimate, more personal now that they’ve seen each other slightly perforated. Reyes is coming very close to being trustworthy, an actual confidant. The Pathfinder worries over the still-missing arks, frets about doing things right by the angara, hates that there continues to be no chance for negotiation with the Roekaar. He asks questions about the Outcasts, about Sloane, the Charlatan - looking for an insider’s opinion, still hoping to thread that needle to a peaceful solution. Reyes doesn’t even have to lie to say that it’s unlikely, no sign even now that Sloane’s about to change her mind about the Initiative or its representatives.

Of course he’s there, when the Pathfinder arrives at the port, though Reyes stays out of sight. A simple smuggler would catch up with Ryder eventually, to ask for a favor or propose some sort of small-time, moneymaking scheme.

A smarter man might ask himself why he bothered showing up in person. Why it was so important to see the Pathfinder as soon as he could, but that’s obvious enough - Ryder’s still the most important asset in the galaxy. It’s good business, and Reyes always pays attention to business.

The Pathfinder steps out onto the dock wearing different armor from what he’d left in - this set sleeker, more ready for a fight, though he’s still kept it in Initiative white and blue, the colors of peace and discovery. He’s looked away, to speak to someone still in the ship, and the gun on his back - that’s an Isharay, not a Widow. Damn, he was probably picking off scavengers from the next planet over.

Ryder turns - his hair’s grown out a little, bleached by the sun and he’s scuffed and windburned and… just stunning, marked with the imperfections of all that living. The Pathfinder - Scott - tips his head back, breathes deep with his eyes closed, the air no longer so stagnant and sulfurous, and his smile is soft and guileless and bright as the Kadara sun shining down on him. 

Reyes’ heart does something he’s only ever heard about in the kinds of songs he doesn’t listen to.

Well, _that’s_ inconvenient.


End file.
